By First Light
by PhantomProducer
Summary: After comes after; stories go on, even after the happy ending. When the hero is also a man, and the world around is faced with difficult challenges and choices, he has to find out where he stands. So do the people who care for him, and so does the woman who loves him. AU from "Age of Ultron" on, not Civil War-compliant. Part three of the "Of Time" series. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

****A/N:**** Sorry for putting the author's note at the beginning of the chapter. HOWEVER, I have to put one up before you continue reading to let you know that this story is the third installment of a series, following the stories _At Day's End_ and _The Eleventh Hour._ You can find both in the My Stories tab on my profile page. Therefore, the character of Holly Rogers (née Martin) and her actions and interactions in this story are not going to make any sense if you haven't read it, as well as any other original characters found within. I know, I'm asking a lot for you to read those stories before this one, but it will help in the long run. Seriously, it will explain the AU changes I have made prior to this story, because there are some pretty big ones I've made. It's the continuing saga of a Steve Rogers/OC, so I hope that's all cool.

That being said, allow me to throw in the disclaimer before we get started: I don't own anything from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I also don't own any other pop culture references I may have made in the text.

Also, this story is UNBETA'ED. This is mostly due to my personal schedule being a little different from others', and therefore harder to coalesce with someone else's. As such, I do proofread, edit, and restructure my own writing. I try my best, but I am not perfect.

Lastly, this story is NOT _Civil War_ compliant. I may borrow a character or two from that film, or readapt a plot point, but I will not be following that film. Consider this an AU, if you like, but if you're looking for 100% canon compliance...I'm sorry, but I'll have to redirect you to the first page of stories in this section.

I think that's it for now...let's proceed...

* * *

The trek from the lower level offices to the apartments at the rear of the base wasn't particularly short, but each step that propelled her further away from her department was a welcome one. Familiar sights of glass, metal and tile swam in and out of her vision, the various branching paths towards labs and other offices nearly empty at that time of day. The journey to the back elevator had not cooled her off in the slightest, her lip being chewed and the sleeves of her sweater tugged over her hands as it brought her to the correct floor. Shaking her head and sighing, she was off mere seconds after the metal doors swished open. Turning left, she encountered the armored hall door, hand print scanner and card slider popping out as soon as she stepped into range. One after the other, she went through the security measure to be allowed into the inner sanctum: the residence of heroes.

To anyone else, it would be a prestigious honor to be given access to the housing of the Avengers, and to some degree, it still was to her. However, the luster had worn off some time ago for Holly Rogers née Martin; it was hard to be wowed by a cluster of apartments that you lived in, too, no matter who shared the common space in between them all. And speaking of the shared common space, it appeared that some of the team were lounging about it, discussing the most recent events of the day, among other things. Wanda Maximoff, codenamed the Scarlet Witch, was resplendent in her favored tones, her hands outstretched and holding a piece of clothing as she rested her backside against the arm of a nearby chair. Before her stood an android, the one called the Vision, his electric blue eyes widening as he scooped up the offered clothing, stretching out to reveal it as the sweater it was. A tiny grin surfaced on the girl's face when she was thanked for her gift. The Black Widow was in low-voiced conference with Sam Wilson, discussing a move that he'd attempted to execute and giving him pointers for follow-through. Seated on a couch on the other side of the room, she demonstrated the technique with a couple of pencils and a rubber band (all items retrieved from somewhere, Holly had no idea where), the man attentive to her words. A man watched them, his back to Holly as she passed by. Roused from her irritation for a moment, she reached out as she walked behind him, her fingers trailing across his shoulder blades and making him start a little at the touch. His blond head turned in time to see her hand flap a hello, his brow furrowing as she proceeded past him into the apartment and shut the door behind her without preamble. He would go to her, eventually, she knew that. Once the final debriefing was done.

Dropping her bag and flopping onto the couch, Holly blew out a breath as she craned her head back against the cushions. She was starting to think that perhaps she should've taken a position in the donations department of the base. It certainly couldn't have been any worse fielding phone calls and schmoozing relief companies. Nothing for it, she told herself, getting up off the couch and heading straight into the kitchen. Reaching around the cabinets (some of them still pretty bare, considering she did not have extensive cooking implements even before the move), she found the hidden stash of chocolate bars. After another brief hunt, she found a bowl and began breaking pieces of the candy into it, scanning the counter. Finishing with the task, she reached out and snatched up the red wine bottle off the corner rack. Taking it, the bowl, and a single glass with her to the living room, she plopped back into the seat she's vacated, gnawing on a couple pieces of chocolate as she liberally poured herself a glass of wine. After raking her hair back into a short ponytail, she drew in another deep breath, determined to get her mind off her annoyance. Extending a hand forward, she fetched up her laptop, scrolling through the tabs that had not been closed since she last looked at the device. Alternating sipping her wine and eating the chocolate, she went through her personal email, corresponding with the publisher who had contacted her a few weeks back. However, she began to become distracted by the other tabs, focusing on them for several long moments and plugging in new data to the search bars every few minutes.

She was so preoccupied with her searches that she failed to hear the door open, failed to notice the new presence in the space. Well, she failed to notice until he bent down, snagging a piece of chocolate from the bowl just before she could grab at it again. Following the path of the pilfered chocolate, she watched as her husband, Steve Rogers, perched the candy between his teeth and grinned down at her, blue eyes glinting with mirth. She snickered, unwillingly, rolling her eyes as he sat down beside her and pressed a kiss to her lips. Flicking his gaze over the coffee table, his smirk lessened slightly. Leaning forward, he palmed the wine bottle, testing the weight and raising an eyebrow at her.

"Long day?" he asked as he set it back down, her answer being a snort and shoveling another piece of chocolate in her mouth. A swift glance warned him that he would be opening the floodgates if he pursued the topic, but the slightest fraction of his shoulder lifting prompted her to go ahead.

"You know, it's shocking how one mislaid file can turn an entire department upside down for an afternoon." Holly rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, slamming her laptop shut and passing a hand over her face. "I spent hours looking for a folder of photographs from 1946, only to find it buried somewhere in the 1967 shelves, because apparently reading labels is a thing that doesn't happen." Also, it seemed to be a thing to make the one who held the title of Junior Archivist do the leg work when someone else made the error…of course. Tightening the end of her ponytail, she groaned, "I mean that, too. It was literally hours of combing through twenty-one years of stuff for snapshots. Geez, I may not have a master's degree like everyone else in archives, but I've at least got enough sense to put things in the correctly labeled place, in chronological order."

Leaning into the couch cushions, Steve folded his arms across his chest, tapping his fingers along his bicep. "Well, everything was packed up and moved in a hurry. It makes sense something like that should happen."

"Makes sense, yes. But it's still irritating," she groused, knowing full well she was being unfair to her coworkers and her department at that moment. Exhaling sharply, she felt herself deflate a little, having let out the frustration. Fingers flicked through the air, brushing the incident off. "At least they're in the right place now."

Putting her head in her hands, she did not see her husband reach over, but she did feel the palm he laid upon her bowed back. As his thumb gently stroked back and forth over the material of her shirt, she felt like such a fool, and a childish fool at that. Her work woes were hardly anything in comparison to what he did for a living. Still, Steve was gracious enough to let her whinge without comment (though if he did do that one day, she wouldn't blame him for it). Sitting up straight again after a minute or so, she dropped her hands away, lacing one with his as she sighed.

"I'm being a whiny baby, sorry," she apologized, her words answered by his head shake. "How was your day? Good?"

Steve tilted his head to the side, eyes flicking to the shield of his trade where it rested against the wall.

"It was fairly tame, actually."

In the aftermath of the fiasco with Ultron, and the subsequent battles ranging across the earth, the demands and rigors of the schedule of a superhero had slowed down somewhat. No doubt one of the numerous opposition groups were amassing, preparing to make their move against the Avengers, but at the moment, in the beginning of August, they were working quietly, leaving nothing to chance. There were still threats to answer, but the last couple of days had been relatively calm. Consequently, it had been a day of hard training and consulting with Nick Fury at the helicarrier base, as well as getting in touch with Tony Stark and looking into some upgrades to the equipment they had. All this was discussed over dinner, two frozen pizzas demolished swiftly (one of them entirely consumed by Steve; the freaky fast metabolism still threw Holly for a loop, sometimes).

"What were you looking at, when I got in?" he asked her once their plates were put in the sink to soak and they had adjourned back to the living room to watch something on the television. He could practically feel her spine stiffen when he sat down next to her, and his eyebrow inclined.

"Um...websites. For buying a house, or building one. We had talked about this being temporary, and well, I was thinking about it." Truth be told, she'd been thinking about it frequently. While the move upstate and their subsequent marriage had put the initial plans on the back burner for both of them, it did not mean the idea had been abandoned altogether. Gesturing to her laptop, she shrugged her shoulders. "We have some money saved up, and if we really need it, we could apply for a VA loan. Can't imagine they'd deny a World War II vet."

Tipping his chin forward and squinting slightly, he wondered, "Were you going to talk to me about this at some point?"

She nodded, genuine in her expression. "Yes, after dinner. And it's that time now. So..."

"You're really ready to get out of here, huh?" he inquired facetiously, the earnest cast returning to his gaze. When she merely shrugged a shoulder, he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose at her non-verbal answer. "That a yes or a no, doll?"

Her head tilted from left to right, eyes rolling with it. Pushing up the ends of her sleeves to stop herself from tucking into them, she laid her palms flat on her knees, met his eyeline fully.

"It's not that I don't like it here, Steve. I know it's important to be here, to stick close by, but..." she trailed off, trying to find the right words. "It's not ours."

It wasn't their home, which was something she'd wanted with him from the beginning of their engagement. Life with a national icon, with a superhero, would never be simple, or easy, but she did not see why that had to preclude them from wanting what other people had. She did not think that should prevent them from putting down roots of their own, finding a place where he didn't always have to be on display as Captain America, and where she didn't have to rigidly guard her conduct as the First Lady (Stark's newest nickname for her grated at times, but it was easily put up with). Like with almost everything else, they could make it work, find a house—or even build one, despite that being a new set of challenges—to make their home. The quarters they had were nice enough, but even now, two months on, it didn't feel right. It didn't feel like more than just a place to exist.

If she had been writing down her thoughts, she could have expressed herself more eloquently, but as it was, she was speaking and therefore found herself more limited. Holly continued to meet Steve's contemplative gaze, firm in her stance. The layer of knowledge beneath his blue irises surfaced as he reached out, cradling the join of her neck in his palm. The shuffle of his warm fingers against her skin settled after a few moments, and he let out a deep breath.

"I understand," he murmured after a few minutes. Nodding to her laptop, he tipped a hand toward it, gesturing for her to open it back up again. "Show me what you've found."

Some time was spent looking through the tabs Holly had saved on her Internet searches, options discussed and argued back and forth as they looked into listings nearby. There weren't a ton, but several of the houses showed promise, and Steve was more than willing to take a look into them in the near future. Within an hour or two, the conversation turned to other matters, glances and touches shared as they went. Soon enough, the pair retired to the bedroom, but not to sleep. Once the door was shut, the pair came together feverishly, clothing dropping away little by little as their embraces deepened.

"Captain Rogers..." a smooth accented voice called out several minutes later, a trifle hesitant. The AI had been instructed to maintain a measure of radio silence for the remainder of the evening, but it was not about to let the goings on at the front door to go unremarked upon.

"Not now, JJ," Steve murmured back, too occupied with his wife's mouth melding onto his and her body rolling on top of him. Her lips moved away to coast along his jaw to his neck, hot against his skin as he groaned. He fumbled with the button of his jeans, but with her swift assistance they were opened and pulled off, joining hers on the floor. Their shirts had long since been abandoned, the first casualties that night.

"Captain Rogers, Sergeant Wilson is at the door," the AI cut in again, insistence in its tone. It was more brusque than its predecessor was, and it was not about to go unheard. That happened a little too often with Mr. Stark. "He is attempting to override access. He's saying it's important."

Frowning, the captain bit off a half-formed retort, instead choosing to groan deeply in irritation. His hands fell from his wife's back onto the mattress, balling up into fists as he rolled his eyes. This wasn't the first time this had happened; living on the base meant ease of access, for everyone. It was impossible to be out of touch, and sometimes it was not a good thing. Important...of course it would be important. But what level of importance remained to be seen, and he would need to see what it was. And they both knew that for sure. Holly's bare chest pressed to his as she buried her face into the crook his neck, groaning in frustration and impatience. Her fingers curled around his shoulders, nails digging in and making him wince slightly. With her atop him, he could feel her body shift, going rigid as she released her hold on him. Sitting up until she was straddling him just above his waist, he watched curiously as her blown-out pupils contracted, a hand raking through her freed hair as she considered something. His palms moved to rest on her thighs, but he stayed put otherwise.

"Not urgent?" she asked, looking for clarification from the AI. Clarification for what, Steve did not know, but he too waited for the answer from JJ.

"No, ma'am, not to my knowledge." The answer was succinct, and one could almost picture the AI shrugging a little as he went on. "Then again, 'important' is subject to opinion in this case."

Holly blew out a fast breath, her chin jerking up almost in challenge. "Well, let's see what's so 'important,' then."

Suddenly, she had lifted off him, the shift in weight quick enough that Steve did not react right away.

"Holl," Steve said soon enough, sitting up fully as she moved off the bed. The comforter of their bed was plucked up, shoved to one side as she tugged at the sheet below. Struggling for a moment or two, she mutely gestured for him to get up. As he did so, his brow furrowed at her actions, observing how she disassembled the bed for the sake of one sheet. As she turned her back to him and began wrapping it around her torso, covering her bareness up top and the black bottoms she sported below, he couldn't still his tongue. "Holly, what are you—"

He was cut off by her crossing the room and flinging the bedroom door open. Confidently, she strode out with her mussed hair and impromptu bedsheet toga wrapped around her towards the main hall, her plan becoming obvious in that second. Half-choking on a gasp, he made to follow her, to try and stop her before she could do as she'd set out to. In his state, though, running wasn't ideal, and by the time he caught up to her (after he shook off the surprise once he realized her objective), she was already tapping through the alarm codes, disarming the quarters and swinging the door open.

"Sam," she greeted, false cheer in her voice as she spoke. Sam Wilson stood before her, hand raised as if to pound on the panels again, but his fist fell to his side. His dark eyes grew impossibly wide as he registered exactly who he was looking at, and the state she was in, jaw dropping slightly. A flash of annoyance went through Steve at that, and despite the fact that he looked just as ridiculous in that moment, he purposefully cleared his throat, pulling his friend's attention away from his scantily-clad girl to him. Wilson snapped his mouth shut, swallowing and barely suppressing a smirk when he noted Steve's attire as well...or lack thereof.

At least he was still wearing his boxers, the captain mused to himself, bringing his hands forward and resting them so that they covered him a little more. The thought was scant comfort, however, and he felt blood rushing up into his face.

"Holly, Steve...hi," the other man greeted them lamely, clearing his throat and pointedly focusing at the wall just above his leader's head. In his peripheral vision, he could see Holly nod, with her leaning against the door and crossing her arms over her chest.

"JJ told us you were trying to break in, essentially." Glancing down, she smoothed out a wrinkle in her coverings, the bedsheet flattening under her ministrations. Affecting nonchalance, she inquired, "What's up?"

Wilson coughed once, gaze lowering to meet Steve's once more, after a swift look was darted to her. She just politely inclined her eyebrows, and waited for him to speak, hips shifting and the sheet parting to expose a bit more of her leg.

"Er, the team in London called," he explained, hooking a thumb backward. "They want to conference about some incidents cropping up in Europe. Told them I'd get back in touch with them after talking with you, Steve."

The captain nodded, shuffling sideways and not quite meeting his gaze. "I was...kinda in the middle of something."

"Or close to it," Sam muttered under breath, the flush in Steve's face deepening when he heard it. "I didn't know that...yeah."

"Yeah. Think you could give me a few minutes?" Off his words, Holly turned to look at him fully, unamused and eyebrows arching. Steve's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he realized the implications of his own words. "Or, um, maybe about half an hour?"

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, her head tilting to the right as she put a hand on her hip. "I don't know, certainly sounds important."

Immediately Sam waved a hand in the air, as if trying to push her statement away. The captain, for his part, nearly glowered at her, cool indifference in her dark eyes when she stared back.

"No, no, that's cool. I'll just tell them you're...off-base for the time being," he replied, the excuse he settled on decent enough. Dipping his chin, he went on, "It should be okay."

Steve gave him a clipped nod, his eyes cutting away and indicating him to go. "Good."

Inclining his head once more, Sam quickly pivoted on his heel and walked away from the quarters, Holly waving good-bye when he risked a glimpse back. Shutting the door as he hurried on, she rested her back against it, tossing her hair a little when Steve approached, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I can't believe you did that," he grumbled.

She tipped her head back, flicking a few fingers in the air with one hand as she held the sheet around her with the other.

"The door was locked and the apartment was in private mode for a reason," she pointed out calmly. "He gets why now."

"Holly..." he drawled, her name not quite the reprimand it was supposed to be. Stopping just short of her, he carded a hand through his hair, looking at a loss for what to do.

"Steve," she countered, shooting him a 'come on' look when he shrugged at her. Striding away from the door, she took note of the clock on the far wall, the digital display unable to be missed. Laying a palm against his chest, over his thumping heart, she let a finger trail lightly over his skin. As it trailed down from his chest to his stomach, his jaw twitching as she did so, she murmured, "Well, you bought a half hour's worth of time. We better make the most of it."

"So romantic," he retorted sarcastically, pupils dilating despite himself. Snickering, she let her palm sweep over his hip before she laced her fingers with his, enjoying the spark of fire that leapt up at the touch. Tugging on his hand, she began to lead the way out of the front hall with him in tow.

"Hey, you're about to get shower play. I wouldn't complain," she told him, cutting a path toward the bathroom. When she glanced back at him, she noticed his eyebrow had raised in question. Grinning darkly, she informed him, "Can't have you show up to the meeting smelling like—"

Steve gripped her hand tightly, pulling her up short. A finger was laid over her lips, pausing her in her speech.

"If that's what you want," he said. He stroked down to her chin, tipping it up and making her look at him directly. When she returned the lusty gaze he'd shot at her, he felt his lips stretch into a feral grin. "Lead the way, Mrs. Rogers."

The half hour that followed was undisturbed, save by the flinging of the bedsheet out the bathroom door before it slammed shut. As well as that, the idea that perhaps the search for a new home should start much sooner than they initially agreed upon had been planted in the captain's mind. But the idea could wait, at least until his thoughts were not otherwise occupied.

 **xXxXxXx**

The Country House was in relative peace that day, the ticking clock marking the time as the hours slid by. Bucky Barnes was not paying attention to the rotations of the hands; rather, he was engrossed in his book, a fantasy thriller recommended by his therapist. It was overly detailed, and so many things were happening at once, but the characters were interesting, and it was enough to keep him reading. It kept his mind open, free of the memories and the darkness for a time. It was easier to do so, in that farmhouse, in his own small bedroom, than any place else in the world. Granted, his knowledge of the world consisted of a time that no longer existed, and of an organization that most likely still did, but he could recognize peace when he found it, and it could be found there.

"James! Some letters came for you."

Glancing up from his book, he made brief eye contact with the girl standing in his doorway. Another agent of Fury's, he'd discovered, who traded on her cherubic blonde hair and blue eyes to sucker information out of the unworthy of humanity. A job gone wrong had her there, and wasn't that always the case? That was what she said to him when he asked politely, having run into her a few times. In truth, she seemed too nice, too well-adjusted to be there, but the haunted look in her gaze when she froze, locked up when she thought others weren't looking, told him otherwise. That day must have been a good day for her, given how smiley she was. And as much as he would rather the people around him weren't as morose as he, he wasn't about to encourage further discourse. Instead, he focused on the novel in his hands and waited until she dropped the envelopes on the table just inside the door. Once she turned out of the doorway and her footsteps retreated down the stairs, he got up, the book abandoned in his haste to grab them up. He had no reason to distrust the people in the house. Like him, they either were there for healing or to assist in the process, and thus far he had not detected any falsehoods in their actions or activities. Still, what felt like a lifetime of isolation and suspicion sat at the back of his mind, no matter how many times he was assured that he was in a good place. Everything could turn in an instant, and they could just as easily take away from him the good things that were opening up to him as give them to him.

He walked back to his narrow bed, seating himself on the edge as he turned the envelopes over. Examining the letters closely, he could tell they had not been tampered with. The first, the neat handwriting on the front remarkable even after all that time, was opened, the flap torn carefully by his metal finger. Removing the paper within, a few photographs spilled out with it, landing in his lap. Gathering them up, he placed them to one side as he read the contents. Steve was well, reporting in every week like he had since the channel of communication had been cleared between them. Apparently, he'd gotten into a bust-up with a set of arms dealers in relation to someone he'd encountered in the recent past (memories of black censor bars threw themselves up in his mind while he noted how aloof his friend was being about the details) but he and the team made it out alright. A few sketches had made their way into the margins, and Bucky could hardly suppress a snicker. Steve was always doodling; he was a danger to any piece of paper if he had a pencil in hand and a free mind, and the letter he held was no more safe than any other. Scanning down the letter, he read that the pictures were a few snapshots from the wedding, the photographer having given him permission to send them along. Not that the kid would really refuse—evidently he really looked up to the superhero team, and was looking to make sure he didn't offend any of them with his work. It ended with him, as always, inquiring as to how he was doing, and what he'd done that week, the words meant to ease him slowly into opening up to the man who had called him friend, and meant it, for the first time in seventy years.

Picking them up and looking at them, he felt his lips turn up in a wistful sort of smile. His friend's happiness was obvious as the candid shot captured him dancing with his new wife, laughing at something she said. In the back of his mind, the part of him that belonged to Bucky Barnes was so pleased for him. Of the two of them, Steve was the one he could picture settling down, marrying, having kids, provided that some dame would finally give him the time of day. As he thumbed through them, few though they were, he noted the repeated appearances of some individuals in them: the billionaire, son of Howard Stark, a dark-haired fellow with inquisitive eyes was by Steve's side in one, a finger jabbing towards an unknown object, a smirk decorating his lips. The one called Sam with his hands tucked into his pockets, head tilting back as he listened to something the bride was saying to him. The red-headed woman with a bright gaze and a biting grin, catching out the cameraman in one and shooting him a playful wink. Members of his team now, the people Steve worked with, trusted...his new friends. His new world.

It was a world that Bucky wasn't sure he could fit into. The evidence of his past, the trauma in his mind, all told him that it would be a risk, and perhaps the captain would be wise to not take it. However, he was still writing, still reaching out.

Crazy punk, his brain threw up, and he shook his head. Setting the letter to one side, he picked up the other. The script in the address was even tidier than Steve's, and slanted, looping on the rounded letters and connecting to the others as it went. A tremor of trepidation fluttered through him as he broke the seal on the flap, and he exhaled slowly before taking out the paper and reading it.

 _James,_

 _It's incredibly obvious when you attempt polite chit-chat in letter format. Probably should skip it next time. However, to answer your initial questions:_

 _Thank you, I am well. Or as well as can be expected, when you're running from country to country, making sure the bad guys of the world don't rest as soundly as they would like._

 _Summer in the country is strange, I agree. I'm more at home in cities. I can blend in there. Out here, people can spot you coming from miles away. I'm not very comfortable with that._

 _I told you the air conditioning would be pitiful. I so told you. Stick to the office in the eastern corner of the basement; you're less likely to suffocate and melt there than anywhere else in the house._

 _Now, moving onto the stuff you really wanted to address, but didn't until it was too late to turn back..._

 _When Steve told me he was going to tell you to write to me, too, I have to say I was really quite surprised by the idea. I can understand why you (more than likely) had reservations in doing so. Still, it's done, and at least you have someone else to talk to. Someone who understands what's going on. God love him, but there are some things that America's Golden Boy probably won't comprehend. Not about being trapped in your own mind, not about having no real form of free will except in choosing the method in which to kill someone. Not about being made into something you had no choice but to be. I was lucky enough, during my stint in rehab, to have someone who at least sort of got where I was coming from. Not entirely, but enough so that I didn't feel like such a nutcase half the time._

 _Only half, though._

 _So, yes, I can do the same for you. And don't worry about sparing me the details, if you have to get into it. I've seen my share of terrible things. More than my share, but I can handle it. Trust me. I can't guarantee that I'll answer right away—Avenging does take some time, and I like to do my job well—but I will answer you. Or at the very least, I'll listen...read, I suppose, but the sentiment remains, either way._

 _I'll consider it part of the whole making-it-up-to-me-because-you-shot-me-twice deal._

 _Do well. Keep wanting it._

— _Natalia_

Unbeknownst to him, a tiny grin had come to his lips after the initial fear had worn off. It had been something of a leap, establishing a connection with the woman who called herself the Black Widow as his friend's behest, but it seemed that perhaps some good would come of it after all. Glimpsing the photos beside him again, he picked up the one featuring the red-headed lady, tapping it against the paper. She understood. And she was right; there were just some things Steve wouldn't understand. Maybe that was why he suggested the idea in the first place. It wouldn't do any harm, not really, to write to her.

Unless she ever used the information he would (willingly) divulge against him. Then he'd make her life a living hell, friendship with Steve or not.

"Good news?" a mellow voice asked him, and he glanced up. Doctor Gregory—Libba, he reminded himself—stood in the doorway, resting one shoulder against it. His eyes darted to the digital clock on his nightstand; it was about that time to meet with her, it appeared.

"Yeah. Um, well, it's not bad," he said, quickly amending his words. Picking up the envelope with the photos inside it, he lifted a corner of his mouth. "Got some pictures with this one. And the other seems willing to talk to me."

After he'd already posted the first letters, he had eventually confessed to the psychiatrist his plan to reach out, connect with the people who had been involved with his escape from HYDRA. In retrospect, he realized that did not want to endanger his own treatment if she thought he was not ready, or if it were a poor decision on his part. However, her found her to be in support of the idea, encouraging him to give it a try. The only time she would object to such a thing, she told him, was if he found the recipients of his letters to be detrimental to his pursuit of healing. In her mind, James needed the room to grow and change, to shed the persona he carried and forge one from the better part of himself. It was a start, and she would not hinder him.

"Certainly sounds positive," she intoned, hazel eyes glittering as she gestured for him to come along. Once he set his letters aside and rose from the bed, she pivoted on her heel, leading the way downstairs and out the front door. The sweltering heat of August washed over them as they stepped onto the front porch, the air thick with humidity. Bucky grimaced, already knowing that sleep that night was going to be downright impossible because of that, if not from the nightmares. Scrubbing his face, he waited as she adjusted the ties on her shoes, turning up the sleeves of her blouse as she swung back up.

"Which direction do you want to go?"

It was a routine, one that they had participated in for the last two and a half months. In the early days, when they attempted to conform to the traditional setting of office and chairs, Bucky had felt stifled, broken. He was quite unable to open up in the tiny box of a room, under close examination, his defects and failures on display. After the third appointment or so, Libba had instead summoned him to meet her outside. When he had done so, she asked him the very same question, allowing him to choose which way they walked. It made him suspect her motives, in allowing him the freedom of mobility and movement, and when he'd shrugged, he started watching the trees as she led the way into the nearby woods. Over the footpaths and broken tree limbs, around the pond one mile west and beside the cornfield of the nearby farm, he followed her, with her only pointing out animal tracks in the mud or the birds circling ahead in the sky. And one day, as they walked, he started talking. About little things: how his mom and dad managed to scrape together enough money to buy roller skates for him and his siblings to share, how his sister insisted on learning to dance from him, how he'd shaken down the idiots who threatened his punk friend who had no idea how to step down from a fight. About bad things: his fall from the train, the pain in his left arm which he could sometimes still feel even though it had been replaced years ago. About the people he had stalked, hunted, killed. About the people he didn't, and how those missions haunted him more. The agony of torture, of losing every scrap of memory until he didn't know how to do anything but eat, sleep, and kill. She took it all, listening to every word he uttered, and when she did not run, when she merely laid a hand on his shoulder and silently nodded, he realized what was happening.

It was the start, but Bucky still had a long way to go. And he still had to pick a path to follow.

"East," he said, tromping slowly so that the doctor could keep pace with him.

"Good," she replied, the pair of them stepping onto the worn-down path that ran parallel to the driveway, away from the house, both of them disappearing from sight after a few minutes.

* * *

 **A/N 2:** And so it begins...

Please, let me know what you all think.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next chapter (with less author notes next time, I promise)!


	2. Chapter 2

Dusk had settled around New York City, the mid-August air hovering as the citizens moved about the sidewalks. Traffic ebbed and flowed, headlights flickering on and streetlights returning the flashes in kind. The bustle of the streets were less of a dull roar and more like bright murmurings that day, the coming night promising to be as lively as the day had been, with slight variations here and there. As the sun slid lower in the sky, the solitary A on the side of one of the tallest buildings in Manhattan lit up, acting once again as a bright beacon within the city's precincts.

High up in the Tower, the inner lights of the upper laboratory had brightened as well. At one of the workbenches along the far glass wall, a dark haired man was bent over what appeared to be a watch, disassembled and parts scattered liberally around it. He peered through a magnifying glass, delicately manipulating a piece of plating and some wires with pliers and a thin screwdriver, leaning away every now and again to consult a digital blueprint sitting on the tabletop nearby. Joining one wire to another, he let out an exultant breath as the connection was established. It had taken far too long to get the pieces to join together, and to finally do it flooded him with relief. Laying the tools down, he reached for the nearly empty coffee mug, wincing and almost spluttering when he sipped at the cold brew within. That was disgusting, and he pushed the mug away with alacrity. He really shouldn't have let it sit so long.

A chime echoed through the empty space, all the louder as JJ automatically turned down the rock music that had been playing in the background. With the announcement of the caller coming through, Stark nodded, accepting the request to video chat easily. It was about time for a check-in, might as well take the call.

"Hey Cap, how's everyone doing out in the sticks?" Tony asked, setting his project to one side and fully facing the digital display nearby, pushing his rolling stool closer. The man on the other end of the video call opened his mouth, preparing to answer, but he was cut off by his friend's next questions. "Have you all gone native? Anybody been challenged to a duel of banjos yet?"

Steve Rogers looked nonplussed for a moment, his head shaking minutely as he exhaled sharply out his nose. Raising a hand, he took his opportunity to speak, ticking his talking points off on his fingers as he went.

"Firstly, don't know what you're referencing, so the humor is lost on me." Steve smirked at Tony's tutting, but otherwise continued his speech. "Secondly, if I recall, you're the reason why we're out by the Adirondacks in the first place. Your choice, your preference, and it says more about you than us."

The billionaire tipped his head to one side, scoffing at the captain's jab, though there was a glimmer of humor in his dark irises.

"Keep thinking that, Rogers," he muttered. "Anyway, everything's good, yeah?"

The captain nodded, his blue eyes narrowing in concentration. "For the most part, yes. Been conferring with the overseas team, had a few incidents to patrol out there. The Maximoffs are off to Sokovia, checking on the recovery progress. Sam and I will be heading out to meet with them tomorrow."

Tony's eyebrows inclined at that. "You say you had to patrol some incidents? What, the new hires can't handle it on their own?"

"They can. They wanted fresh eyes to look at the situation, since they're a little too close," he told him. The glance he shot sideways intrigued Stark. After a beat of quiet, Tony inclined a single brow, met with one of Rogers'. Turning his hand over, he curled his fingers in a 'give it up' gesture. Steve sighed then, brow furrowing as he confessed, "And they're a little too green. Some of them, anyway. That kid, Jeanne, she's quite a handful. I don't know how Chapman keeps up with her on a daily basis."

Stark flexed back his shoulders, considering it. Well, the _de facto_ leader of the smaller team had been part of MI5 prior to his new employment; if the gruff Liverpudlian couldn't figure out how to deal with a morose eighteen-year-old (let alone the elder Maximoff, who would literally run circles around him to prove a point), he wasn't sure who could.

"She's a newly-minted MIT grad. Trust me, we're all a little much at the beginning." Particularly when they graduated at a young age, he mused privately. From his understanding, the girl had just obtained her degree mere weeks before she was approached to join the extended Avengers program. Her reputation had preceded her: hard-nosed, a hard ass with an exceptional mind. Yeah, 'handful' likely didn't begin to cover it. Snickering under his breath, Stark continued, "Except for yours truly, of course. Well, maybe it just takes a little _finesse._ All in the name of _union_ , _Jack_."

A few seconds of silence, accompanied by Steve's eyes rapidly blinking.

"Dear God, you must be out of your mind with boredom if you're stooping to the level of making codename-based puns, Stark."

"Oh, you have no idea," the billionaire returned, a blank look on his face. "I might have to put a _Cap_ on them, I've got so many stored up."

Absurdly winking to punctuate the statement, he grinned when the blond man on the screen reluctantly started to chuckle. Even if it was done more out of disbelief than anything else, he would take it.

"Keep going, and I'll extend your probationary period," the other man threatened when he finished, sitting up straight and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Uh-huh. Whatever you say," Tony brushed his remark off, tapping his fingers along the side of the screen to pull up the compilation of documents he'd been storing up. Flashing a quick look at Steve, he went on, "Been some incidents out here, too."

A dark blond eyebrow arched, and the captain inclined his head. "More with the masked man?"

At that moment, Tony took the time to open his documents, reading off the news reports he'd taken the liberty of gathering. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, as the man had started being dubbed, was surfacing closer and closer. Repeated appearances and defense in the public were bringing him out of the shadows, and the self-proclaimed Iron Man, while not altogether confident in the fellow's abilities (or the state of his mental health; who fought without being able to see their opponents, he wondered), knew that it would be important to keep tabs on the guy. The guy who was basically operating in his backyard, so to speak.

"Him, and a few reports concerning a private investigator. Sneaking under the radar when the whole Hell's Kitchen crap was ramping up," he reported, dashing off the records he had and emailing them to the leader as he spoke. "According to SHIELD intel—well, the stuff Nat didn't manage to dump on the Internet—she's been on the radar for some time, but she was off the grid until recently. The city's getting stirred up something fierce since the team vacated."

Picking up his tablet to look at the files sent to him, Rogers stopped, staring at him.

"...You broke into the old SHIELD intel network, again?"

"You can't even call it 'breaking into' when the passwords are so easy to figure out." Off Steve's deadpan glance, Tony spread his arms out, gesturing to the air. "I'm not allowed out in the field until September; I've got to find some way to occupy my time, and Pepper does need to sleep, eventually." Pausing to let the partially-true joke sink in, he screwed up his brow as he thought back on the captain's words. "Wait, I give you juicy criminal activity gossip and the thing you took from it was me reading some out-of-date files?"

A baleful look was shot at him, and he cupped his hand in the air, saying nothing else. For a moment, he just let the captain examine the files he had sent, a finger tapping and swiping every few seconds. Soon enough, though, he had more to say.

"Are they really criminals, Tony? By that logic, we're criminals, too," Steve pointed out, his gaze narrowing at the tablet in his hand. Eyes flicked up briefly, catching the billionaire's shrug and head tilt. "We just happen to be ones with public endorsement."

"I knew the Boy Scout thing was fake," Tony crowed in mock triumph. After the captain dutifully rolled his eyes and groaned, he grinned. Slowly, though, the mirth dripped away, and he was left contemplating what he had just been told. "You think they're not?"

The glance his friend gave him spoke volumes, but he did deign to answer verbally, as well.

"I think we don't have all the facts yet. And until we do, we can't make judgment calls," he pronounced carefully. Letting out a slow breath, he murmured, "I do appreciate you keeping an eye and ear out for everything happening there, though."

Tony dipped his chin at the acknowledgment. "Glad to hear all my good work isn't going to waste."

"It isn't, truly," Steve reaffirmed. Setting the tablet to the side again, he breathed out carefully, inclining his head as another question came to mind. "How are things working out with Parker?"

A corner of Stark's mouth lifted. Ah, the kid from Queens. It had been a stroke of luck that brought the young teenager into the billionaire's circle; the amateur photographer had been hired for the captain's wedding, but he had impressed Tony enough to actually compel him to part with one of his business cards. Encouraging the boy to contact him had been an interesting move, made even more so by the kid actually getting in touch with him two days later. Enrolling him in the internship program, he'd kept an eye on Parker—he was the most competent of the bunch, and considering that he had just turned fifteen at the beginning of June, that was saying a lot.

"The kid shows promise. I've got him tending to a couple of little side projects on his own at the moment, see how he handles them. He does well enough, who knows?" Tony crossed his arms, lifting a shoulder slightly. Despite the offhand way he was speaking, there was no mistaking the leap of confidence and pride in the boy he had (unconsciously) started to consider his protege. So far, Peter was meeting every expectation, his bright young mind absorbing all that he was told, and his inquisitive nature allowing him to approach the problems presented to him with a fresh eye. Tony looked forward to his final presentation on the thirtieth. "I might keep him around through the school year, make him a _paid_ intern."

Steve nodded, a corner of his mouth lifting. "I had a feeling the two of you would get along."

"Once he was broken of the hero worship," the billionaire admitted, pulling a face at the memories of the early days. The poor kid was so enamored with the idea of working in the Tower, and for him, that he didn't seem to have his head on straight. He was broken very quickly of that behavior. "Though he still blathers on about you from time to time."

"He's a good kid, be nice," the captain admonished him, cocking his eyebrow and quirking his lips. Lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender, Tony snorted and sat back in his seat.

"Yes, Mother." Dark brown eyes focused on the screen, the layer of concern beneath the cockiness bleeding through. "Everyone's okay out there?"

Hearing the shift in the tone, Steve shuffled in his seat, canting his head to the side. "As good as we can be. Still adjusting to the changes, but it's better than the early days."

"Good, good," Tony said, sounding distant for a moment. It felt so odd, getting reports in that way, as if he were not even part of the team any longer. No matter how much Rogers had emphasized his importance and continued inclusion on the roster (imposed 'vacation' notwithstanding). Part of him was bothered by it, if he were being honest, and yet...well. Glancing down, he picked at a loose thread on his layered tee, seemingly ignoring his brief bout of melancholy. "If I hear anything else, I'll call in."

"Sounds good," Steve told him, witness to the quiet but keeping his thoughts to himself. A voice called to him then, from off-screen, and he half-turned in his seat. Going by the feminine tone and the unbidden brightening in the captain's expression, he had to surmise that his friend's wife was asking him something. Quickly, he responded, telling her that he would be with her, soon. Giving the camera, and consequently him, one last look, seriousness invaded his tone. "Take care of yourself, Tony."

"Yeah, I will. You, too," Stark replied, managing a grin as he waggled his fingers in farewell. One more nod, and the other man reached out, turning off the screen on his end and terminating the call.

"At least you've been doing that much," a familiar, mellow tone spoke up behind him, pulling him back from the mire of his private thoughts. Pivoting in the stool, Tony felt warmth pulse through his body, driving out the cold that had invaded during his work time. In the doorway, leaning against the jamb, was Pepper. Out of her professional attire, she was dressed down in an old shirt of his, loose slacks encasing her legs. Her light red hair was down, draped around her shoulders and face. More important was her expression: though tired, she had a smile on her lips, one that he returned gratefully.

"Eavesdropper," he admonished her, smirking withal. The grin turned a tad rueful as he focused on the toe of his shoe. "Well, it was your suggestion that I might, uh, well—"

"Need help? Honey, we all have been suggesting that for years," she jokingly told him, crossing the room to step into the V of his legs. Once she got close enough, his arms went around her waist, palms pressing into the small of her back. Tenderly, she carded through his close-cropped hair, sighing deeply. "You're still going, right?"

There was no hesitation in his answer. "Yep. Even penciled in for..."

"Wednesday, 3:30 in the afternoon," his new, trusty AI swooped in to save him. "Dr. Branson was open to your idea of bringing donuts."

"Thanks, JJ," he told him, looking up into Pepper's gaze. He had made her, and himself, a promise. It was one he intended to keep. Though the probationary period was somewhat enforced, he could not say that he was overly upset by it happening. He needed the time, needed to prioritize his life and tend to himself. Truly tend to himself, and not put on a front like he had time and time again. He needed to be put in check; the whole fiasco with Ultron had shown him that much. And he needed to do it for himself, before things got worse. Tipping his head to the left, he mumbled, "Getting in touch with all my feelings and junk. Delving ever deeper into my daddy issues, and the anxiety...it's fun. Like getting on a Gravitron with a full stomach twice weekly, but instead of blowing chunks I blow emotional baggage all over the place before I'm allowed out."

Pepper's grin came out more like a wince.

"Still...fewer distractions," she noted quietly. Deep down, she knew that it would be impossible for Tony to give up everything for the sake of his own recovery, but what he did do was manageable. He was becoming more involved in the company again, attentive to the interns and the labs at the Tower, the number of his suits down to a decent number. He was more present, now, present in the world...and with her. She missed him terribly, not the arrogance or the inflated pride of the past, but for who he was genuinely, the part of him that had heart and compassion. That side was getting closed off far too much, to protect himself as more and more people tried to destroy the pieces of good in his soul. The danger of losing him had loomed on the horizon, and it took almost losing the world to understand that. Rebuilding the damage would be a monumental task, but she knew he could do it. She knew he was doing it, little by little. Less Iron Man, more Tony Stark, he was learning to strike a balance, which was all she ever really wanted for him.

For both of them, really; it was hard enough managing a tech conglomerate when the owner was having regular life-threatening escapades and meltdowns. It kind of brought down the romance when those things happened, she mused sardonically. Wisely, though, she held her tongue on that regard. Leaning forward, he rested his head on her chest, his hold on her tighter as her hands skimmed down his back.

"No cocoon. Not this time. Just me," he almost whispered, reveling in her caresses. He'd missed her, too, more than he could possibly ever express. He, the man with a thousand excuses and witticisms at his disposal, was still rendered a verbal mess by the emotion the woman in his arms made him feel. He'd agreed, he'd promised, and he meant to keep it. Her lips pressed the top of his head, and he sighed deeply.

"Good. Now, it's starting to get late, and I'm only here for fifteen more hours," she said, stepping back to look at him directly. Smoothly, she trailed her arms from around him, fingertips brushing from his shoulders to his palms to lace her grip with his. Tugging on them and forcing him to stand up, she began to back out of the space, her bright gaze never wavering from his. He followed her, eyebrow arching as she smiled devilishly. "How about you come downstairs and we make those hours count, Mr. Stark?"

Once again, there was no hesitation in his answer. Lifting a hand, he used the motion detector to shut off the lights in the lab, ready and willing to leave the work for the time being and do as she asked.

"Absolutely, Ms. Potts."

 **xXxXxXx**

The extraction division of the Avengers base was relatively quiet, given that it was mostly formed for the major disasters that cropped up every now and again. Lately, the world had contented itself with smaller dealings, and so those who were assigned to that area, consequently, held titles in other parts of the organization. One such individual who belonged to the division was currently finishing up her work for the other she participated in: weapons and gear testing. Kay Szymik blew at the strands of bright blue hair that swung into her face, focusing intently on the tactical armor she had been supplied. It would be mass-produced for on-duty agents to use in the field, once it passed inspection. And if any piece could pass her inspection on the first go, she would be mightily impressed.

After all, her Inhuman abilities put her above the standard. Her incredible strength allowed her to shred Kevlar with her bare hands. Still, she had to scale back, knowing she had been assigned the extra tasks at Fury's behest to test her limits. It was a secret assignation, one that would determine how far she could go without drawing attention to the truth of her being. Twisting and turning in the uniform, she snorted to herself; she already drew enough attention with the hair, which was permanent and unable to be dyed any other color for very long. Still, she had to admit that suit she was wearing was holding up thus far. That is, until she went to bend over and roll. The ripping caught her off-guard, and she immediately straightened, huffing under her breath. Well, that was fun while it lasted.

Glimpsing the clock on the far wall, the hands just clicking past five o'clock, she determined she'd done enough for one day, and went to change back into her casual wear. On the way out, she dumped the uniform on the desk of the designer, silently pointing at the broken weave between the back panels and inclining an eyebrow. His groans followed her out the door, and despite his irritation at her finding defects in yet another piece of his, she couldn't help but laugh to herself (though she knew it was cruel to do so).

Shaking her head, she fished her phone out of her pocket, swinging one strap of her backpack over her shoulder as she walked slowly through the halls. It had been a few hours since the last text message had come in, but she couldn't help herself. An update on the Falcon's departure from the base, with a wish for her to take care of herself while he was away. It was followed by a promise to get in touch when he had a moment to himself, a kissy-face emoji punctuating it. She'd rolled her eyes, grinning despite herself. It was cutesy and corny as hell, and he knew she disliked the sappiness the emoticon provoked. Damn teasing son of a...

"Hey!" Kay stopped in her tracks, glancing around to find who had called out to her. From the hall to her left, the wing that led down to archives, she spotted the young woman picking up the pace to catch up with her. Her grin remained in place, her phone tucked hurriedly away before she waved at her. Holly Rogers quickened her pace, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor. For a moment, Kay envied her; there was some merit to having an office job, particularly an office job where the dress code was relaxed. When she got close enough, Holly smiled wide, combing back her loose hair and exhaling sharply. "Haven't seen you around lately."

That was true enough. While Kay wouldn't say they were the best of friends, the two women had formed a sort of bond, drawn together due to the other woman's lack of familiarity with the staff and Kay's general caution of her coworkers. A couple of times a week, they would break for lunch together, talking shop or whatever else was on their minds during the day. For the last few days, though, Kay had been deeply involved in her testing and other projects and had to cry off...which she was not pleased with, as it turned out. Despite the very different backgrounds the two women had come from, they had worked together reasonably well during rescue and evacuation operations in Sokovia. They weren't the closest, but she did like her.

"Or so you'd like to think," she retorted, chuckling along with her. Dipping her chin, she wondered, "What's up?"

Holly's hands began to fidget, removing themselves from the strap of the bag over her shoulder and tucking into the ends of her sleeves. A nervous habit, one that had not been broken in the short few months that Kay had known her. Lifelong habit, like her own hair tugging when she was concentrating hard on something.

"Um, well, Steve's on mission for the next couple of days, with some of the team. I was wondering if maybe you'd like to swing by the apartment, maybe watch a movie or something?"

"In other words, distract you while your husband's out on duty?" The guilty slide of the other woman's eyes told her she had hit the mark. She didn't blame her, though, for reaching out. If she had been in her position—alone, far from the place she'd considered home for a good amount of time and her closest companions unable to be by her side—she'd probably ask for someone to stick around, too. And, honestly, she didn't mind the request. Glancing down at her silent phone, she let out an inaudible sigh and nodded. It wasn't like she had other plans for the evening...that time. "...Sure. I can do that."

She softened the acquiescence with a grin, and Kay was pleased to see the brightness return to Holly's expression. Gesturing for her to lead the way, she walked behind her, feigning ignorance as they went into the elevators at the back of the base. Her eyes glanced across the scanner, as if she had never seen it before, as if she had not followed another through the door, giggling quietly as he struggled to both open it and hold onto her at the same time. Passing security clearance, she could at least say that she was able to actually see the place in daylight. The common area was empty, as the Avengers who had remained behind were tending to themselves, so it gave Holly the chance to stand in the center of the room, rotating around it and pointing out the living quarters as she went. First were her own, shared with the captain, followed by the reserve suite that would be opened to any visiting team members. Ticking them off one by one, the agent nodded with slight interest as she went.

"And over there is—"

"Sam's apartment," Kay cut in, a brief flash crossing her irises visible as Holly turned a questioning look at her. Inwardly, she was kicking herself for letting that slip. Quickly, she hooked her thumb at the bank of doors her companion had indicated before, a swift cover pulled out. "You pointed out a bunch of the others. It was a logical jump to make."

"Yeah..." she intoned carefully, scanning the agent's face for another odd flicker. What was that all about? Shrugging her shoulders, she pivoted on her heel, leading the way towards the quarters she lived in. "Fair point."

Inside the captain's quarters, Kay found that the place had more homey touches to it than Sam's apartment. The furniture there was not the standard modern cut and set she was used to seeing, the stuff that had been provided to those upon moving onto the base; no, the place reminded her very much of her own digs. Everything was lived-in and well-loved, from the comfy couch all the way to the messy bed (so she peeked while Holly was in the bathroom; she was, by nature and by profession, curious). Seeing it, she began to understand why the winged Avenger seemed to prefer her place to his. A quick dinner of spaghetti—easily made, and therefore suiting their purposes well—was had, the discussion of which movie to select distracting them for a time. Eventually, the choice landed on one of the Peter Jackson films, the first of the second franchise. Kay had confessed to seeing the first trilogy, but not the second, and Holly decided right then she had to at least watch the beginning. On the plus side, the guy who was playing the dwarf prince was good-looking; she could always appreciate that.

By the time the hobbit onscreen was storming off down the lane, declaring that he was about to go on an adventure, her phone vibrated on the coffee table, where she had perched it precariously next to her companion's. Without thinking, they both reached for it, with Holly grabbing it up. Realizing she'd grabbed the wrong device, she shrugged and opened her mouth to apologize, her gaze widening when she chanced a look at the new message notification. As Kay feared, she swiftly turned it around, Sam's name displayed starkly on the screen. She knew she should've changed his name in her contacts, she groused inwardly, taking the device away. Swiping at the message, she viewed his request for her to call him once he got to his rooms in London, his eagerness to hear from her holding a decidedly lusty edge. The telling smirk stretching her lips jarred Holly out of her trance-like staring, bringing her back into the present.

"Oh my..." she breathed. Her gaze narrowed curiously, and Kay could detect no malice in her expression. "So you and Sam are...?"

At once, Kay straightened her spine, on alert. "Depends on what you're asking."

Her companion 's eyelids went down, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm guessing that's an agent deflection for 'yes.'"

"Something like."

Waving her fingers, she sat up, tucking her legs under her and leaning forward slightly. For a moment, she looked like a teenager, raring to hear some gossip.

"Okay, for how long?"

Kay, in spite of wanting to behave calm and cool about it all, grinned and giggled. "Again, depends. Are you asking how long we've been hanging out, or since we've been hooking up?"

"Um...both, I guess," Holly said, brow furrowing at the distinction needing to be made. Kay tucked her hair behind her ear before scrubbing a hand over her face. She had to go and tease her with information, and for some reason, instead of lying, she felt compelled to be honest.

"To the first, a month and a half, and to the second, about two months."

"Wow. Just, wow," the other woman crooned, leaning back into the cushions. No doubt she was confused about the endeavor going on under her nose, under all the Avengers' noses, for that length of time. Soon enough, she confirmed her thoughts outwardly. "How did I not hear about this?"

"Nobody has, really. And that's by design." Entanglements, of any variety, were not exactly encouraged back when she had worked for SHIELD, and she did not imagine the rules had changed when the organization formed again. Not only that, she would be setting herself up to public scrutiny for getting involved with one of the Avengers themselves. Every part of her being and her training had screamed for her to keep it a secret, for as long as they could. Sam had agreed to her requests when she first laid them out: no labels, not open displays of affection...it had to be just the two of them, in private. "We're...attached, but we what we do have, we don't want to get out."

A thump beat through her heart, but she squashed it down, her black gaze appealing to Holly as they sat. The movie continued to play on as the brunette across from her nodded slowly.

"Not a word, I swear." She mimed the locking of her lips and tossing away the key, an attempt at joviality.

Kay snorted. "Yeah, because you're going to keep this a secret from Captain America."

Stern eyes turned to her, which took her aback slightly. Evidently, the woman didn't like the implication she was making.

"If you don't want me to say anything, I won't. Just because I have a tendency to be forthright doesn't mean I can't keep my mouth shut if I'm asked," she reminded her, a knowing look shot at her. Kay inclined her head, understanding the truth of her words. The captain's wife was already keeping a secret of hers; not a breath of her knowledge of her status as an Inhuman had passed her lips, and the agent was certain of it. True to her promise, she had been keeping an eye on Holly, and as yet she'd heard nothing about herself in the gossip mill that circulated the base. Cupping a hand in the air, Holly continued, "If you were threatening to blow up the world or something, then yeah, I'd rat you out—"

"And there goes my evil plot," was the quick jest, Kay snickering to herself as Holly spoke over it.

"—But hey, this is your business. Seriously."

She punctuated the words with an inclination of the head, a hand held out. For several long seconds, Kay stared at her, determining the legitimacy of her words. Slowly, carefully, she placed her hand in her companion's, shaking it solemnly. For so long, she did not trust, not fully, not anyone outside her little haven inside SHIELD. Once that was gone, she was lost, left with nobody to express herself to. Left with no friends, left on her own. There was a difference between self-sufficiency and loneliness, and she had learned the difference the hard way. She was shown the fallacy in keeping everything about herself in, and had decided that, perhaps on some points, she could try to trust again.

"...Okay."

The curious flare, though, had not fallen away from her, and Kay braced herself for more. As expected, the other woman pointed a finger at her.

"Just one thing, though, and then I'll drop it."

"Alright, one thing," the agent agreed, tipping her palm out and gesturing for her to ask. "Go."

The brunette chewed on her lip for a second, looking as though she might not want to say anything, after all. Soon enough, though, she cleared her throat, tilting her head to the side.

"You were hooking up before hanging out?"

The grin Kay sported went from casual to wolfish in a matter of seconds. "With some things, I don't like being subversive. Getting straight to the point was better in that case. Much better."

Holly blinked rapidly, shaking her head violently as if to dislodge any mental images that had cropped up. The blue-haired woman lifted a shoulder, laughing outwardly at her plight.

"Okay, that's...that's enough for me, thank you," her companion murmured in a deadpan tone. The chuckles continued as they both turned their attentions back to the movie.

 **xXxXxXx**

Tension invaded the atmosphere, threatened to choke them as they made their way to the capitol building. Whispers and murmurings followed them as they climbed the steps, fingers pointing as they walked. Comments flew fast and hard, barely intelligible. The auburn-haired woman cocked an eyebrow at her silver-tressed sibling, who merely returned the expression with a shrug and a smirk. It was common for them to be stared at now, common for people to speak in hushed tones, asking about their purpose and their presence, no matter where they'd appeared.

Pietro had, however, hoped that the mutterings would have petered off whenever they returned to Sokovia. Wanda had told him that such a wish would remain forever in the realm of fantasy. Their days of anonymity were over the moment they declared themselves Avengers.

The twins were deputized by the organization to meet with one of the city councilmen in the capital, to be apprised of the rebuilding efforts and report on the progress. They had been sent on ahead of the others, their citizenship used as the excuse to open up communication with the rest of the team. It was a welcome reunion for the brother and sister, even if it had to involve work. With them residing on different sides of the globe—she in New York state, he in England—it was hard enough to check in with one another. At least that way, they could see for themselves that the other was alright. Both of them were downright thriving in their separate environments, with Wanda's training making her powers more formidable and Pietro's tenacity gaining him a foothold in the hierarchy with the secondary team. Still, there was a hope that they could be meeting under better circumstances.

On the positive side, they were able to converse without the fear of being shot at, he'd pointed out, with Wanda rolling her eyes at the statement. Sokovia was still recovering from the battle that had torn Novi Grad apart months ago, but relief efforts to repair the damage had gone above and beyond expectations. Companies were taking an interest in the small nation, eager to help rebuild it in the hope that it may open new channels of trade and commerce. The government, strapped for support and cash as always, were more than willing to do so; boosting the economy after the tragedy in such a way could only be beneficial. The twins were there to make sure the beneficiaries were receiving what they needed, and to see if the relief suppliers were making any undue demands. So far, Novi Grad's gaping downtown was being built back up, piece by piece. The councilman they were meeting with promised as much, showing them photographs and video feeds of the progress once they'd made the pleasantries and retired to his private office. Pietro scanned the reports with interest, adopting an air of confidence to combat the niggling feeling of inadequacy in his gut.

"And what about the base?" he asked after a moment, jabbing a finger at the building in question. Strucker's illicitly purchased base had been a holding cell for both his sister and him before the Avengers' intervention at the end of April. It was a breeding ground for darkness and manipulation, and it had remained untouched during the disaster. Its stark, stone walls cut a swatch against the treeline, a reminder of failures and mistakes. He grimaced upon looking at it; he wanted to know exactly what was to happen to it, now that it was revealed for the haven of evil that it had been. "What is being done with the property?"

"The property itself will be converted into a museum and memorial for those lost in May," the councilman conceded, folding his hands and placing them on his desktop. "We are hoping the proceeds can be used towards future rebuilding projects."

"How long will that take? From what we understand, there is still a good deal of equipment left over from the HYDRA occupation to remove," the elder Maximoff responded. He more than understood how much was left to remove; he'd had to help haul pieces himself between hideouts.

"We have already begun the process of removing it. All major pieces, as you know, have been sent on to the United Nations for safekeeping and inspection, while others...well, we've been selling as memorabilia." The councilman sighed in sorrow. The country was truly in a tight spot, needing all the money it could get to form homes and businesses again, get the citizens back in the sister city as soon as could be. After years of war and revolutions, it was tough to find any to use. It was why the government had had to sell it in the first place...something they deeply regretted doing now. "With Baron Von Strucker gone, and his son disappeared, there is no one left to claim it, and besides that, it was seized the moment we realized it was all owned by a terrorist cell."

Wanda shot a look to her brother, the air around them suddenly thick. "Who has been buying the pieces?"

"All sorts, collectors mostly."

She arched an eyebrow, and Pietro could practically hear the wheels of her mind churning. "Any particular names on that list? Anybody buying multiple times or in a massive sweep?"

That made the older brother pay attention. Before their arrival, they had been told by both Rogers and Chapman to stay on alert for something of that nature. From what they'd implied, collectors of HYDRA memorabilia were often not that at all. The baron had used that title as a front to get the equipment he'd needed to mount his offensives, to create them. Somebody else with a proper amount of intelligence and determination could do the same.

"We have a few," confessed the councilman, sweeping a hand through his thinning black hair. Pietro's heart sank upon hearing the words, but he kept his mouth shut as the man continued speaking. "We are monitoring the sales, but so far everyone has checked out as clean. But that's only as far as we know."

Green eyes focused on a point over the councilman's head, the younger Maximoff's face donning a blank expression. Recognizing the disturbance in his sister's countenance, Pietro smoothly took over the conversation again, lighting on what he hoped would be the correct course of action.

"We need that list, as soon as possible," he told the councilman, shooting another glance at Wanda as the older gentleman nodded. With promises to return quickly with the list, the fellow left them alone in the office, the ticking of the clock on the wall permeating the quiet he'd left behind.

"What do you think it means, sister?" Pietro asked after a few moments, leaning closer to her and keeping his tone low. Something about the information given was upsetting her, or perhaps it was an impression of the fellow's soul that had her on alert and suspicious...had him suspicious, too. He wanted to hear her say it, confirm the sinking in his stomach as not merely being a coincidence. Carefully, she cut her gaze to him. Something about the whole situation seemed off, making her gut twist as she heard it. Within it all, something was wrong. In her mind, she could hear the Black Widow instructing her to trust her instincts, to understand her gut feelings and to use them as needed.

"I think that whoever is willing to buy HYDRA equipment in mass quantities at a knockdown price must have a reason for doing so," she told him, each word pronounced carefully. Her hands dropped into her lap, rings being twisted on her fingers as she considered everything. "Particularly since we know for a fact that they aren't as dead as the world wishes them to be."

Pietro nodded, a frown coming to his lips. It was just as he suspected, too.

"I'll ask around, see if anybody has noticed anything suspicious," he said, rising from his chair and passing the papers to her. Huffing out a short breath, he shot another glance at the clock. "What time will the captain be coming?"

She peered at the photographs, canting her head to one side. "Should be a few hours. Sam will be coming with him."

In point of fact, they should have been in the air by then, their departure from London happening as soon as Pietro had guided her to a tram, ready to face the bureaucrats on their own. Jerking his chin up, the elder twin scratched at the back of his neck.

"Okay. I'll ask around, call in to Joe, and meet you later, then," he said, hands planting on his hips as the plan formulated.

Wanda looked up at him, her gaze raking over her brother. Sisterly concern decorated her features, and she let out a sharp breath.

"Be safe, Pietro."

He smirked at her, even as he bent to wrap an arm around her shoulders and plant a kiss in her hair.

"When am I not?"

"Surprisingly often," she scoffed, rolling her eyes and grinning despite her resolve otherwise. If she wanted, she could take the time to recite a number of instances in the recent past that demonstrated his rashness (the incidents during the battle in May came to mind; he could very well have been killed then). However, it was not the time for such things to be brought up. Reaching up, she patted his forearm, tipping her head towards the door. "Go now."

With a final nod, Pietro sped away, blue and white mist left in his wake as he vanished. Perhaps there would be nothing to report when he returned, and perhaps what she was feeling was just a nervous suspicion, brought on by nothing more than fanciful thought. Still, the Scarlet Witch could not make herself ignore the tightness inside. There was something wrong in the little confession the councilman had made. She just did not know what it was. Yet.

* * *

 **A/N:** ...I'm still sort of stuck in the multiple-POV mode that I had to adopt for TEH, so the first few chapters of the story will likely be me doing that, edging slowly back into a mainly Steve/Holly storyline. Still, now that I've incorporated the larger universe into these stories, I will be shifting to the others on occasion. Which is why I have Tony taking the lead this time around.

One of the major problems with _CW_ that I had is how thrashed Tony's life becomes (one of several problems, really). A lot of what he's doing strikes me as trying to regain some control and stability, particularly with what is happening canonically with Pepper. It's something that he should've started doing much sooner, and it doesn't seem that he really has ever truly taken care of himself ever since his abduction. I don't want that for him. I think he is intelligent enough to see his own defects and hurts, and he would at least try to do something about it (you can see it in the way he opens up to Bruce in _Iron Man 3_ ; he wants help, he just needed to figure out how and where to actually get it from). Plus, I've been a Pepperony fan since Day-Freakin'-1. C'mon, Marvel; stop tearing down what you've built for the sake of drama.

Also, we get the first hints of villainy cropping up at the end there. It will be a slow build to the reveal of the dark side coming to light, but it is starting. Lastly, for those of you who are new: this is probably the point where you realize that I was serious about reading the first two stories before this one. Because Pietro's alive here, so...yeah...

Next time, we're going to make the jump into September, and possibly get into some house-hunting, and other things...perhaps a mention of another super-soldier, who knows? ;)

I own nothing from the MCU, including _Agents of SHIELD/Daredevil/Jessica Jones_ , nor Marvel comics (shout-out to Finesse—whose age I did raise in order to allow her to work on the secondary team—and Union Jack) or any other pop culture references ( _The Hobbit_ and the Gravitron definitely don't belong to me) I have made in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	3. Chapter 3

Dust motes circled the room, passing in and out of the sunlight coming through the windows that early September afternoon. Steve Rogers was stretched across his bed, arms crooked behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling, sans regalia and lost in thought.

The list of contacts that Wanda and Pietro had obtained from the Sokovian government officials, of those who were purchasing the abandoned HYDRA equipment, had been looked into. A few names had cropped up as repeat buyers, and they were taking precautions with investigating those people. Thus far, a couple had turned out to be legitimate purchasers, but of those remaining, a few had been labeled as false names or dummy holdings for others, blocks effectively placed so that no further digging could be done. It seemed that the Avengers were making their presence a little too well-known, and all activity with the suspicious parties had ceased. Weeks of work, and now nothing to show for it. Okay, perhaps 'nothing' was a harsh judgment, but it all smacked of the situation with Loki's scepter, and that was a course of events he did not care to repeat.

However, they would be remiss in ignoring the curious nature of the names, and therefore endeavored to at least keep an eye on them. They could surface elsewhere, either among the contacts they had whom had successfully infiltrated the black market operations around the world or maybe even in an unrelated field entirely. The whole situation did not sit well with Steve; he had a feeling the people behind the false names and holdings would make a harder stance sometime in the near future. He just couldn't pinpoint when. But dwelling and brooding—his wife's choice of words, not his—would ultimately get him nowhere. And there were other concerns to deal with that day.

After all, viewing houses could be classified as such. Preapproval for the VA loan they had applied for had finally come through (both he and Holly had agreed to that course of action, as they both did not want to be beholden to the First National Bank of Stark on the issue), making the time spent on getting the paperwork in order worth it. Within a few days, they had found a realtor willing to work with them on that score—John was an older guy, impressed with the credentials of his client but tactful enough to not always elude to it. In between the missions and the meetings, Steve had some free time to start looking with Holly, and that was on the docket for the afternoon. After a few moments of peace, of course.

"Bus is leaving, Steven! Miss it at your own peril," a voice called from beyond the door, Holly's impatient tapping of her foot exaggerated to the point of him being able to hear it almost perfectly. Shooting a look up at the ceiling once more, he scrubbed at his face with both hands. His few moments were up, it seemed. And going by her use of his full first name, it would be best not to linger.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, sheesh," he groaned, pushing himself off the bed. Snatching up his favored navy jacket from the top of the dresser, he paused to cram a ball cap on his head, too. With both articles situated on his person, he slid his hand into his pocket, completing his civilian wear by perching aviator sunglasses on his nose. The tried-and-true method of passing amongst the populace had remained just that, and he wasn't about to meddle with it. No matter how much Holly teased him and the others for it.

She was waiting for Steve in the hall beside the front door, one arm braced along the wall and her fingers tapping to an unknown beat. As he closed the bedroom door and crossed over to her, she smirked, raising her hand and rattling the key ring. He rolled his eyes, picking up the pace to meet her by the door.

"The one time you're ready before I am..." he trailed off, adjusting the cap and zipping up his jacket. They both had a preference for punctuality, but more often than not, Steve was the quickest prepared of the two. Knowing the truth of his words, Holly canted her head, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

"Exactly. I've got to live it up while I can," she shot back, sticking her tongue out at him and chuckling. Exiting the apartment, he locked up behind them, tripping after her as she hot-footed her way down to the elevator bank. Exuberance flowed out of her, and when he caught up to her, he couldn't help but return the smile she had on, albeit with a smaller one.

"You're practically dancing, doll," he noted, his arm coming around her shoulders and pulling her closer to his side. They matched step as they walked through the compound, but all the while Holly seemed to maintain the energetic pace she'd acquired. Not to say that she was ever lethargic, but the air around her seemed to spark and pop. Having seen it before, he recognized it for what it was. His thumb brushed back and forth along the sleeve of her blouse and he snickered. "A little excited, huh?"

"I've got a good feeling about today. I really do," she said, looking up at him in earnest. Hell yeah, she was excited, and a little nervous, too. She'd managed to look up the information on two of the places John would be showing them that day, too eager to wait on the showing itself. Granted, she would've been sent the information anyway, but still...

In any case, she had hopes for the first jaunt out to look at houses. Maybe they would get lucky, maybe not. She couldn't wait to find out.

"Well, let's hope the good feeling pays off and we actually find something we like," Steve remarked cautiously, jabbing the button in the elevator to take them down to the garage level. It was unlikely, in his eyes, that they would find something that early on. The image of Clint's farmhouse floated into his mind's eye, the home his friend had made. That was what he wanted: just a home. Buzzwords like "character" and "open concept" flitted through his brain, and he was hard-pressed to hold back his frown. If there was one thing that could be said about apartments, it was that they were fairly straightforward and simpler.

As the elevator slowed to its stop, Holly glanced up at him once more, contemplation bleeding through the excitement.

"We might. We'll see."

"Hmm," was all he could grunt back, traipsing after her as she led the way to her blue Buick.

Holly climbed behind the wheel, allowing him the chance to ride passenger, let his mind drift as they sped down the track away from the base. The first house on the list was roughly twenty-five minutes away (according to the irritating voice on the map app on her phone), cutting it close for the cut-off of travel time that they were willing to put up with for a commute. Trees and greenery rushed past as the car turned off the frontage road, the mountains peeking through the gaps in the canopy every now and again. The radio nattered on, tuned to a jazz station that was fairly tolerable. Companionable silence sat between them, but it did not last terribly long.

"How did the call with the publisher go?" Steve asked, looking at her curiously. The night before, he'd come home to find her holed up in the private office. Peering through the crack in the door, he'd caught the harried look on her face and how her free hand was gesticulating wildly to the air as she spoke with the literary agent she'd hired. When she'd come out about a half hour later, she just shot him a muted glare and warned him to not ask. He figured it would be safer to wait at that point, instead thinning his lips and instinctively reaching for the bad comedies she often turned to for solace. As far as he knew, the last two months had been spent negotiating a contract over her book's rights, amongst other things, and it seemed that the entire ordeal would still be mired in negotiations for the time being. Holly's eyes flicked over at him, a sigh driven slowly out her nose and her fingers flexing around the steering wheel.

"It was okay...kind of. It started out that way." Another glance, another sigh. "They're being rather insistent on not wanting me to use a pseudonym." It was a decision she'd made after their marriage; she didn't want to draw extra attention onto them both with her submitting works to a publisher. There was enough publicity around them as it was. The excuse for detractors to pick up her story and judge it solely on her name was distasteful. She grimaced then, foot pressing down a little harder on the accelerator pedal. "They'd rather I use my married name; it would help sales, or so they tell me. I told them no, again, and they backed off...soon enough. Can't say how long that will last."

"If you want to use it, you can and you should," he murmured softly, his focus on his hands in his lap. He didn't want her to limit her chances, in any form. "Don't hold back on my account."

Her jaw set as she negotiated a left turn, and she snorted. "It just seems like they have a lack of faith in the manuscript to sell without having you attached to it, even in an oblique way. And while you are merited a thanks in the book for helping me get off my ass and finish it—"

"Very kind of you, by the way."

"—It's not about you at all." Holly glanced him out the corner of her eye, some of the intensity of her expression softening. "No offense."

A corner of his mouth turned up, his gaze raising to look out the windshield. "None taken."

"They don't have the right to tell me what to do, and they don't have the right to bully me into trading on your fame just to sell it. Especially since I haven't signed anything yet," she reiterated. That was the crux of the matter: her book's subject material had nothing to do with Steve personally. The narrative was about a young girl developing powers and going on a rescue mission to save her mother and others like her from government control; there was no mention of Captain America anywhere in the plot. They'd made it sound like if her last name wasn't attached, it wouldn't get very far. That was discouraging; not having her married name on the cover shouldn't take away from the content, and that was something the marketers weren't considering. Her thumb rubbed against the wheel in her grip, and she continued, "If they keep suggesting it, I'll walk, and try again elsewhere."

Steve observed her for several seconds, her resolute expression and clear gaze making his heart swell with pride.

 _'That's my girl.'_

"Not many people have that much integrity," he declared aloud, a sardonic smirk on his lips. Noticing it, she shot one of her own back at him.

"Well, I'm not many people, am I?" Holly pointed out. One hand came away from the steering wheel and cupped the air. "If I was, I doubt you'd be in this car right now, looking at houses on what should be your day off."

He dipped his chin, brightness invading his gaze. "Or it could be because we're married, and I have it on good authority that pissing off a wife this early on is less than ideal."

Snorting audibly at that, she rolled her eyes as her fingers laced with his, their joined hands resting on the center console.

"Good to know where your priorities lie, Nerfherder."

"Of course, Princess."

Turning off the main road, the captain barely had any time to adjust to the change from tar to gravel. The crunch and grind of it under the Buick's tires, and the pings of loose ones cracking off of the undercarriage made him shift in his seat. In comparison, Holly was calm, her sharp gaze concentrating on navigating and her foot sure on the pedals. One minor lurch over a carved rut in the road made them both jump, and Steve tilted his head back against the rest.

"We really need a new car," he muttered in a low tone, his fingers curling around the overhead handle.

"There is nothing wrong with this one," she countered mildly. Though she'd never explicitly stated a love for her car, there was an undeniable connection. It was understandable; it was her vehicle, and it had been with her through college, all the way to moving to the east coast. She did not take kindly to the suggestion that it was not good enough for their purposes. In her mind, what he'd said would probably have been akin to her being critical of his bike.

"Let me rephrase that: we need a car that can handle upstate back roads better than this one," he amended, dropping his hand down as the turns morphed back into straight road. That was a little easier to deal with, but he shuddered to think what it would be like once winter came. Ice and snow blanketing every inch, horror stories from his childhood of people being buried alive upstate surfacing in his mind. A snort and a snicker met his words, and Holly's eyebrows rose.

"You just want an excuse to buy that big-ass truck you were looking at." Off Steve's incredulous glance, she shook her head at him, fighting to keep a smile off her lips. "You were using my computer and you didn't close the tab; don't act surprised that I know about that. Should just be grateful you weren't looking at a van or something."

The mental image that swam up in both their minds made them laugh, more so her than him. Once it petered off, though, he shrugged, drumming his fingers against his knees.

"It would be good to have the second option," he said, wanting to make his case. "I can't drive the motorcycle during the winter again."

A sharp chill ran up his back at the thought. Though he had driven his motorcycle through all kinds of weather, it was getting tougher each year to stand the freezing cold and ice even with the appropriate gear. When it wasn't part of a mission, naturally; he could hardly concern himself with the weather on a mission, unless it would slow the team down in some way. The model of truck he'd been looking at was similar to the one he'd driven back when he and Natasha were on the run. Even when hot-wired, it ran smoothly and he liked the space of it. Something like that would suit their purposes right down to the ground, he'd figured. A minute or two of quiet passed, the end of the lane coming up swiftly. A small farmhouse was perched at the end of it, a maroon SUV parked and waiting for them. Upon being spotted, a heavy-set man with black hair and a wide smile waved to them, ushering them to stop. John was timely, and more than ready to show them around, it seemed.

Holly's dark eyes lit up, and she looked at Steve, reaching over and teasingly tugging on the bill of his cap.

"Let's worry about finding a house first before adding another expense on, okay?"

He nodded after a few seconds, chancing another look at the realtor and the looming building behind him. One thing at a time, he thought.

"Fair enough."

 **xXxXxXx**

"Come on."

"No."

"It will take less than five minutes to do it," she crooned playfully, her fingers curling around his wrist.

"It would take less than five seconds to drop this, and yet, here we are, still," he responded, matching her tone with false cheer as he covered her hand with his.

They'd been going back and forth for a couple minutes on the matter, ever since they were sure the realtor had gone downstairs. He'd left them be, to talk to one another about the house itself. On the whole, it was a decent house. It was only about twenty years old, with the right amount of bedrooms and a semi-finished basement. There was even a bonus space up in the eves of the house, converted into a bar area. Granted, it was a palace of wallpaper and old appliances, but neither of the couple seemed to be bothered by that. Upon their request, he'd gone. After all, they did have much to discuss. Or so he'd assumed. Rather, Holly had bid him go with false pretenses, an idea in mind since they happened upon a particular room. Standing in the upstairs hallway, peering into the shared bathroom with Steve, she'd been attempting to goad him into doing what she'd asked, and he was not too fond of the idea at all.

The room was cramped, with the current homeowners having somehow finagled a bathtub and separate shower into it, with the shower cut into the wall just behind the door. On top of being narrow, it had the shower door coverings she remembered from her early childhood, complete with gold chrome edging and the warped ripple effect. It was a far cry from what they had at the base, that was for sure. And upon its discovery, she truly, genuinely wanted to see if her husband, a man standing at six-foot-two and built like a brick wall, could even squeeze into the tiny space.

"I swear, I will give you twenty bucks if you get in that shower and can stand up in it with the door closed," she promised him, eyes glittering with mirth. Steve sighed, tiring of the back-and-forth. The cubicle reminded him of the ones at Camp Lehigh, as well as some from the hotels he stayed in during his USO tour. It could be tough, but it was doable. Shooting another look into the bathroom, his eyes narrowed a fraction when he glanced back at his wife.

"...Money first, or no dice, doll."

Faced with the choice of putting up or shutting up, Holly reached into her pocket, retrieving the small wallet and extracting the bills as requested. Handing them off to Steve, she heard him muttering about it being the easiest and stupidest way he'd ever earned twenty dollars as he tucked them away, and she felt her grin grow wider. Ushering her in first, they slid sideways into the bathroom, the outer door having to be partially closed to allow the shower door to open. Rolling his eyes, he looked at her once more, her shooing hands gesturing for him to get it over with already. Jerking the door open, he was forced to duck, the header of the shower door no higher than his chin. Squirming and turning, he grunted under his breath, pushing himself into the back wall and getting his body situated in the tiny space. Evidently, the current owners were definitely not his size. If it had been 1941, the shower would have been more than ideal for him, but now...

Hooking a foot under the edge of the door, he pulled it back, planting it squarely as the door clanked shut. His arms were raised, brought up to avoid the other accouterments in the space with him. He had done it; Steve had gotten himself to fit in the shower. Beneath the applause at his effort, he could hear the laughter Holly could barely suppress. Looking out at her over the header (shifting to make the shower head stop digging into his shoulder), he shook his head, the corners of his mouth threatening to rise.

"Oh my God, it's like you're trapped in a tiny, plexiglass prison," she squeaked after a few seconds, a hand covering her mouth as she tried to calm down. He furrowed his brow at her, groaning aloud as he laid his palms flat on the ceiling above him, tilting his head back against the tiled wall. Well, she wasn't entirely wrong about that. After a moment, he heard shuffling and rustling, and before he could ask what she was doing, he heard the click of a shutter. Snapping his head forward, his eyes widened as Holly tapped the button on her phone again, a second photograph of him in his precarious position taken. Smirking to herself, she refused to meet his aghast stare, instead nodding proudly. "This is so gonna be used for the Christmas card this year."

"Hey, you didn't say anything about pictures!" he cried, causing her to jump a little. Giggling, she took off, stepping quickly out of the space to escape his wrath. Attempting to follow her, Steve was at first stymied by the door, the plexiglass sticking for several seconds before he pushed it open. Ducking under the top edge, he stumbled out, his hip slamming against the sink as his legs got tripped up by the raised lip of the shower. Another peal of giggles rolled up the stairs as a muted growl rumbled in his chest. "Holly!"

When John inquired about their dubious discussion later, ultimately they could only tell him they wished to see the other properties lined up for the day. The captain was idly rubbing at his side, and Mrs. Rogers merely smiled, with no further explanation given.

 **xXxXxXx**

The next house they went to see was a fixer-upper opportunity, one of a few on the list, and they weren't quite sure what to make of it. They did at least agree to checking out the property, and decided to withhold expectations. Both Steve and Holly had concluded that if a ready-made home was not available, they could afford to purchase a place that needed some care and updating. Hard work was not something they were afraid of, and it was a way to make the house their own. They'd already researched a couple properties that had fallen into that category online, and while they like certain aspects of them, they wanted to keep looking just in case. They weren't totally sold on those homes, and they just wanted to keep their options open.

The drive up to the second house was disconcerting in and of itself; while shaded drives were common in their area of the state, the wooded thicket they pulled up to had a decidedly ominous feel to it. It was fifteen minutes away from the last place they'd looked at, and already a half hour from the base. Something about it made the captain fidget in his seat, and his wife had slowed the car down significantly. A breath of relief flowed out when they reached the end of the run, with John waiting for them. He nodded forward, beckoning for them to get out and join him. When they climbed out of the car, catching sight of the house itself, Holly gasped and Steve grimaced. The nonexistent expectations of the place had plummeted significantly. The picture they'd seen of it did not match the reality.

Worn shingles were falling from the roof, the dark wood of the siding bleeding through a poor paint job. It was a two-story, which was in its favor, but the broken glass and creaking shutters were off-putting. The porch looked unsteady, and the outbuildings visible from their position were ramshackle, at best. The trees surrounding it swayed in the breeze, creaking and snapping when a particularly hearty gust brushed them.

It, frankly, looked like a hideout for a serial killer, and Holly's imagination was running wild when that description for it popped into her mind. As well as that, she was the daughter of a contractor; so much of the place screamed "not up to code" that it wasn't even funny. It would cost less to pull it down and build a new house, she surmised, her husband being of the same mind in that moment.

Wary blue eyes cut across the roof of the car to the perturbed dark brown gaze, a silent conversation passing between them in a matter of seconds. They had reached total agreement on that particular property in less time than it took for them to get out of the car.

"...Nope," Steve pronounced, immediately opening the door and sliding back into the vehicle.

"Absolutely not," Holly concurred, following suit after raising a shoulder up at John where he waited by his car. The realtor witnessed their refusal and sighed, climbing back behind his own wheel.

It was a long shot, that one, and he'd known it. Perhaps the third property would yield better results. Or, at the very least, the couple would be more likely to go inside.

 **xXxXxXx**

Early evening rolled in, the sun's rays slanting across the earth as it went. The blue Buick cut through a small town, the occupants eager to put the day's events behind them. Steve was driving, giving Holly a break. The house-hunting search had taken them all around, each place a minimum of fifteen minutes away from the next. Still, they had asked to look specifically out of any of the nearby towns. They would treasure the privacy (not to mention the defensible nature of such a house) in the future, but at the moment, it just meant that it would take them longer to get back to the base. The little city's buildings idly drifted by, small cottages next door to bungalows, businesses still operating even as the day drew closer to an end.

Soft music played on the radio, one of the piano compilation CDs chiming in the silence. Holly leaned one elbow, propping up her chin in her hands as she looked out the window. There hadn't been much to say after the last showing finished. John promised to take a look at other houses and let them know when he found something new, and so they had parted amicably. She had been placid, contemplative, for the duration of the ride, handing Steve the keys with no qualms whatsoever.

"Three houses down today, God knows how many more to go," Steve muttered, sinking back a little in his seat, hands gripping the wheel. The third place was little better than the first they saw. As a whole, there wasn't much wrong with it; there was significantly less wallpaper, which Holly was glad to see. However, it just didn't...seem like home. And while he'd never owned an actual house before in his life, he had lived in homes. The layouts of his apartment, the one he shared with his mother, the Barnes' digs, even Holly's place in D.C. had the feeling of warmth and comfort. Obviously, any place they looked at wouldn't immediately exude those traits, wouldn't raise those thoughts, but the ones they'd viewed thus far just didn't impact him in any way. He couldn't picture his family at the houses they'd seen thus far.

Steve blew out another sharp breath. It had been promised that the process could be slow and unsuccessful, and it was living up to—or perhaps down to—those expectations. The day's offerings did not bode well for the future.

"Yeah," Holly concurred after a moment, dropping her hand and looking at him. Reaching over, she patted his thigh, sitting up a little straighter. "We'll find it, soon."

An eyebrow inclined at that. "Got a good feeling about it?"

"I do," she replied staunchly, raising her chin in an almost challenging manner. Steve shook his head and grinned tightly, no doubt wondering at her level of confidence so early in their endeavor. Her palm moved off his leg, instead taking up the device settled in the cupholder of the middle console. Phone in hand, her fingers tapped away at the screen, and after a few seconds, she breathed out a low hum of pleasure. Glancing back up at him, she murmured, "Meanwhile, there's another house I would like to take a look at."

Bleakness streaked across his face, and he barely stopped himself from frowning. He was more than ready to be finished that day, but if he had to, he could handle one more.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, the Pour House," she said, flipping the screen for him to take a swift look at while they were held up by the stop light. The map was opened to directions for a well-reviewed bar in town, the blue line cutting up and away from the tiny car figure onscreen. "It's two streets over and has a grill. I'm starving."

Risking another sideways glance at the phone, Steve pressed his foot against the pedal as the light turned green, pulling into the right lane in preparation for the turn-off.

"I'm definitely willing to check that out," he told her, more than ready for some dinner and maybe a drink or two. Even with a day of disappointment, Holly was salvaging the evening in whatever way she could, and Steve was more than willing to partake in it. At least that was something they were sold on.

 **xXxXxXx**

Mail delivery had been completed, and hidden between the mailers and offers for credit cards or cable television, a neatly addressed envelope sat. Anticipating it, like she had anticipated the others that had preceded it, Natasha took it with aplomb, setting the extras to the side for a moment. Debating whether or not to read in the privacy of her quarters, she instead chose to sit out in the common room. It was all but deserted, her other teammates either working in the public offices or off elsewhere. The Saturday was theirs to do as they liked, and once the captain had truly made himself scarce, the others followed suit.

Well, the others except for her. There was some intel she had to look into, a few sheets forwarded by Maria. She had taken the week to visit the helicarrier, and consequently Nick. He was investigating some missions and claims sent to him by Coulson, who in turn wanted her input. She had a good understanding of the mentality of the agents he had at his disposal, having made it her personal project to look into their backgrounds once she knew of their existence. And she had been working diligently on that for hours, up until the mail drop had come through her slot. She could afford to take a break, and she could certainly take it away from her computer.

She knew Steve had not suggested her responding to Bucky's overtures lightly; he knew, to some extent, the measure of pain and sorrow that she had inflicted was of a similar shade to his friend's, and she could commiserate in ways he could not. So she had conceded to the wishes of both men, in the interest of aiding a fellow human being and to help a friend. And, obeying her own selfish motives, she wanted an excuse to not think of her own troubles.

For the first time in years, her best friend was missing from her side, halfway across the country and out of reach. She didn't begrudge Clint the time he was taking to spend with his family. In her opinion, no one deserved it more. His sons and daughter needed him, his wife needed him…they needed him away from SHIELD, from the Avengers, and he could finally grant that wish. Natasha could not, in good conscience, beg him to return. Nor could she implore Nick Fury to be at hand, either; the fractured organization needed his steadying hand elsewhere. The two solid forces in her life since her defection and subsequent transformation all those years ago were out of reach, and while she did have others to fall back upon for support, it just wasn't the same.

Not to mention…Bruce…

Violently, Natasha shook her head. She was quick to divert her mind from thinking of him, to squelch the rogue ache in her heart at the thought of even his name. The ache that, as time went on, was starting to lessen, bit by bit.

Still, she was determined to make the best of the situation, and here was an opportunity to do so. Bucky's letters, though not always pleasant, were a welcome source of distraction. Initially, she had viewed the correspondence in that simple way, but she quickly learned that it was in no way simple. Deep down, she'd understood that much, but even she was unprepared for the level of escalation the letters had taken over the last nearly five weeks. The darkness, the doubt of his convictions, harkened to her, compelling her to read and listen, just as she'd promised she would do. The compulsion to respond was something she could not quell, drawn as she was to the mystery of his mind. Like Steve, he was a man out of time, but the summation of his character could not be held to just that (to be fair, neither could the captain's). Half-forgotten memories, a life broken of will and want, a mind forever split in half between truth and deceit…it was fascinating, from any outsider's standpoint.

To Natasha, though, it was the honesty of the experience that drew her in. It was that she was a few steps ahead of him on the road, and she could turn back to see him progress, knowing that it was only a short time ago that she had been in the same position. And in it, she could also see smatterings of the man he once was, and was trying to recover. The secret moments, interspersed with the bleak ones, were what made the letters worthwhile.

The first couch she came across was her chosen perch, her body unfolding languidly across the cushions, the glow of the evening's light met with the artificial overhead bulbs, warm glows and stark brightness meeting one another. Sliding a finger under the lip of the envelope, she easily broke the seal, pulling out the notebook paper within. At first glance, she could see the handwriting was sloppily done, denoting haste and a general sense of discord on the part of the writer. Raising an eyebrow to herself, she began to read.

 _Natasha,_

 _It's a good thing we're communicating by letter. It's past midnight as I'm writing this, and somehow I doubt you'd be pleased if you received a telephone call from me at the moment._

 _I can't sleep. Hardly a surprise, for someone like me, but it's no less disturbing. Guess I was due for a bad night; I've been doing fairly decently, all things considered. Not great, not terrible, but well enough to get by, feel like a normal human being. Evidently that can never last long._

 _Faces. I keep seeing the faces of the ones I've killed, all blending into one, each one screaming or crying out to be spared. Their voices are so loud, like a hundred sirens going off at once. They're all begging me to let them live, and no matter how much I try to fight it, I still pull the trigger. Each one in agony, and I pull the trigger again. Double tap, I think someone called it once. One in the heart, one in the head. I am inside myself, and at the same time, I'm outside, doing my damnedest to stop it from happening. And then...I'm in that room, in that chair. Mission report, I have to give one on command. Completed or failed. Shock of white light around me, burning through my skull before freezing in the ice. Before I know it, I'm out again, and it starts over. It always starts over._

 _Sometimes I don't just see the dead ones. The ones who survived are there, too. I'm not sure what is worse. Being haunted by the dead, or by the fearful._

 _It's better to stay awake in that case, instead doing that for eight solid hours. At least I can write; the computers are shut down at eleven o'clock every night and the television is positioned in the room that allows sound to carry, and so it can't be used late by design. Smart bastards._

 _Sorry to say that I am taking you at your word, once again. Granted, this is less graphic than some of the other things I've told you, but the sentiment remains the same. It's times like these that make me really question what in the hell I'm doing here. Whether or not I deserve to be here, deserve to...well, to even live._

 _Natasha, I know that you've barely told me anything about your own experiences. But I do know that you understand enough. Do the nightmares ever stop, or at least lessen? How...how can I reconcile the past with what...who I am becoming? Is it even worth it?_

 _Will the screams ever stop?_

 _I know this isn't appropriate subject matter for a letter, but then again, hardly anything we've ever written to each other could be considered that. How you can kid with me about the incident in Odessa is beyond me...but at the same time, I do appreciate it. I know what it cost you. It is a shame that I've deprived you of the joys of wearing a bikini. Granted, I had to look up exactly what that was, but now that I know, it's a shame. A damn shame; I bet whatever you do have makes up for it, though. At least you can still wear sleeves comfortably. Any loose fibers get caught in the plating on this arm, and it becomes a cut-off, whether I want it to be or not._

 _I suppose it's odd, my rambling like this, but at the moment, it's helping. As if I didn't get enough help these days. Perhaps I should just declare myself an emotional and psychological invalid and be done with it. When I wrap this up, I might head out to the training space in the barn. Out there, I can be as angry and as loud as I want. The only things I'll disturb are the owls and the squirrels. So long as I don't damage any more equipment; I may or may not have bent a bar out of shape. Tell Fury at your own risk. Or the doc, for that matter, though she probably already knows and hasn't said a word._

 _I think it's time I finish this. I'm going to write Steve next, and when you both get your letters, you can talk about how strange they are, and how off the rails I've become, even with the events of the past providing more than enough evidence of that. And even though you've told me that it's ridiculous to do so, I do hope you're doing well. Or, at least, better than I am. Still, I feel a little more on an even keel than I did earlier, so that must mean something._

 _Thanks, Natalia._

— _James_

The smile she had been sporting (unknowingly) upon opening the letter had flattened, pensiveness overtaking her features. She had known actively corresponding with Bucky would, more than likely, cause her to revisit her old memories, the ones she tried so hard to push away and forget. Flashes of a childhood that was no childhood, of chains and blood, of nightmares and loneliness awaited her in the dark. There was no escaping them; she had learned that lesson all too well in May. And while she no longer bore Wanda any ill will for her actions—because, in her place, she couldn't say that she would've made a different choice—the vision inflicted on her could not so easily be put aside.

She, too, had wondered if the screams ever would stop. In her heart, she knew that they would only be quieted from time to time. They would never fade. And perhaps that was the point: so she wouldn't forget the horrors, wouldn't forget who she had been. If she forgot, she ran the risk of becoming that girl again. Becoming that monster.

She couldn't forget; it would be truly unforgivable if she ever did. It would dishonor her, and the memory of those taken by her hand. Natasha could live, breathe, but she would not neglect the memories, or run away from them. And that was something Bucky needed to know.

Nodding once, she withdrew to her private apartment, heading straight to the office towards the back. Scooping up a sheet of paper and a pen from the lower drawer of her desk, she went back out into the main area, taking a seat at the corner banquette, coffee table retrieved and pulled up to act as a desk. With Bucky's letter placed within reach, she uncapped the pen and preparing to tell him just that.

A knock against the nearby wall pulled her out of her thoughts, and her bright gaze swept up to meet the tired brown one staring back at her. Gently, she laid her pen down, adopting a friendly expression despite the interruption. Colonel Rhodes—Rhodey, as he preferred to be called infinitely over his first name, which was also James—stood there, leaning against it. The War Machine was decidedly under-dressed, for once, forgoing his stiff button-downs and slacks for actual, honest to God jeans and a long-sleeved tee. She'd figured he'd be spending his evening elsewhere; most everyone had abandoned the common area when in search of things to do with their days off, and he was no exception to that rule. Clearly, he wanted something, but she did no more than smile and wait for him to speak up. He ran a hand over his scalp after a couple of seconds, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Nat, hey. Wanda's trying to make some sense of the received reports that Pietro sent over. She was wondering if you could help her out with some of them." Rhodey crossed his arms, shaking his head to himself. "On top of them being in code, they're in Russian. And when I asked her if it really was all that different from Slovak, she, well...it was better to make a quick exit after that."

She arched a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, barely suppressing a smirk. While one could never say that Rhodey was unintelligent, his knowledge of languages didn't exactly extend to the Eastern European regions of the globe. It was a wise move for him to leave after making that remark.

"The Vision isn't available?" she inquired aloud. Of all the team members, she would have expected the girl to reach out for him first. He would have no trouble with decoding and translating, though perhaps he could misunderstand nuances. Nuances that Natasha would be able to identify from a mile away.

Rhodey lifted a shoulder, flapping a hand in the air superfluously.

"He and Sam are on maneuvers with the trainee agents, getting them whipped into shape," he explained, unconsciously standing at attention. "Inspection is coming up soon, and they need all the help they can get."

Natasha's gaze dropped, settling on the papers before her, a small grin coming to her lips. "Don't want to disappoint the captain, huh?"

The smile he sported had a hard edge to it. "Or the sergeant, or the two colonels who will be reviewing them."

She dipped her chin, recalling how Fury had said something about being around for the newest batch to prove themselves. The poor recruits were going to have a tough time of it, no matter how much Sam attempted to help them.

"Careful, your superiority complex is showing, _sir,_ " Natasha muttered dryly. Rhodey spread his arms wide, the gesture unmistakable.

"Hey, I wish them all the best, and have high hopes for the new batch." He paused, considering something, a knowing gleam entering his eyes. "Also, high expectations. They knew what they were signing up for."

There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the four men would put them through their paces, determined to have the best of the best rise up and meet the challenge. With Rhodey so recently out of service, there would be a lot to live up to.

"No kidding. Yeah, I'll help..." she trailed off, her eyes darting to the letters again. The movement was tiny, almost disinterested, but the man looking upon her noticed the bent of her posture. After a moment, she scooted forward in her seat again, vaguely hooking a thumb down at the sheets of paper before her. "Tell her I'll be there in about twenty minutes or so. Working on a project of my own."

"Okay, I'll let her know," he murmured, pivoting to go. She bent her head, retrieving her pen right away. However, she did not hear his retreating steps, nor did she feel his presence beside her disappear. Glancing up, she could see him looking at her thoughtfully, almost as if he were examining her. Her bright eyes narrowed, almost at the same time his did. "You doing alright?"

She canted her head to the side, her expression deliberately blank. "Yeah. Can't complain."

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Well, you could, but you don't."

So much left unsaid made the pause that followed loaded. Rhodey was not ignorant, nor unobservant; to be either would not have allowed him to progress as far with the Air Force as he had. And while he had no details of what had gone on privately before he'd officially joined the team roster, he had enough sense to see that the smooth, mysterious veneer that he had been exposed to before the mess with Ultron had been cracked. The depths were unknown, but the disturbance on the surface rippled, if ever so slightly. Not to mention the numerous rumors that had to abound about her, anyway.

The statement was not made in malice; if anything, genuine concern seemed to decorate his features as he watched her. She could find no fault in him for reaching out, even if she had not asked for it.

"No point," she breathed, barely above a whisper. The faintest appearance of a line creased her brow,

For a long moment, he stood there, meeting the fierce stolidity of her gaze before he sighed. Tipping his chin up, he idly scratched the back of his neck for a second before blowing out a sharp breath.

"If you ever decide there is a point, you got plenty of open ears to listen to you," he told her quietly. If she did not want to speak about it, then that was her choice, but she had to know that she did not have to put things off indefinitely. Rhodey had worked with a number of spies in the past, many of them similar to Natasha in a lot of respects. In some areas of life, he concluded that she would be too far gone to come back from the brink, too much changed from the others to do so. But that did not mean she had to be unreachable. They were on the same team, working towards the same goals. At the very least, they could depend upon one another, if nobody else. Pointing to his own ears, he smirked, covering his seriousness with a smirk. "Including these two."

Carefully, while still maintaining her neutral expression, she nodded, her physical acquiescence enough to assuage him. She did, however, back it up verbally as well.

"I know. Thanks, Rhodey."

Waggling a few fingers back at her in farewell, he departed for the elevator bank. Sighing low, Natasha returned her attention to her letter, the name staring up at her from the blank sheet as she pondered what had just occurred.

Rhodey wasn't wrong, in extending his offer. And there was a point…but the point was not enough, did not merit the attention she had once thought it deserved. She could take care of herself, always had done so. But she didn't have to do so alone. Barton had taught her that, long ago, and the truth of it was reinforced by her new teammate, her new friend. One new friend.

Exhaling softly, she twiddled the pen still in hand, tapping it against her temple for a second or two before starting again, starting afresh.

 _Dear James…_

* * *

 **A/N:** Oh, things are moving along, now. Enjoy the fluff and the fun. By the way, I have the funniest mental image of Steve trying to get in and out of that tiny shower, holy crap...

Well, it's September, the house-hunt begins, and Natasha and Bucky's correspondence continues. I am aware that not all authors go through the situation that Holly is—some of them have had very easy times, others harder—but eh, can't have it be perfect for her. And Rhodey finally makes it in to the story other than by vague referencing. Whoo.

By the way, I know one of you reviewers told me about VA loans, and I thank you for that. You get a digital cookie, even if I'm blanking on your name at the moment (sorry!). I know the process for it isn't very simple, as I've probably made it seem, but it has been nearly five weeks since the idea of getting a VA loan was presented in the story; I figured that would be enough time for preapproval, at least. Thanks again!

I'm a few hours later than usual with posting, mostly because I got scheduled to work on a day where I normally write, and so my time was taken up, but...well, it's out now! Can't make any promises in regards to the next chapter, but I do hope it will be enjoyable.

Also, not to be _that_ person, but in case you missed it, I wrote a little one-shot about Holly and Steve's second date, taking place between Ch. 21 and 22 of _At Day's End._ It's (very simply, I know) entitled _The Second Date_ ; In case you're interested in more fluff, go check it out. You can find it under the My Stories tab on my page. :)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references mentioned in the text. I also don't own anything from the _Star Wars_ franchise.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	4. Chapter 4

The twenty-sixth of September was a date to mark that year, for a couple of reasons. Arguably, one of the most important was that it was the date of the first coordinated Avengers movement, with both eastern and western hemisphere teams deployed. After running through a myriad of codes and decrypted plans, it was revealed that a cluster of HYDRA cells had remained. Though not thriving, heads were still above water, refusing to drown and die after the loss of Strucker, after the evils of Ultron. As always, there was another ready to take the place of whomever had come before. Two secret bases had been revealed in the transcribes that had been intercepted, one along the coast of Spain and the other in Morocco. According to the translations done by the Maximoffs and Natasha, they were holding cells of a sort, storage for illegal weapons and back-up for any plans made since the raids last fall. A good number of operatives would most likely be on hand to guard it all, in both places, but the teams were willing to take the risk and meet them head-on.

It was tough, attempting to plan out an attack with the other team, but leaving before dawn would allow the transatlantic flight to catch them up to Chapman and his compatriots. Farewells on the landing platform were simple and brief (Maria Hill was able to send them off with a good-luck message from the UN rep, and Holly was able to rouse herself from sleep to see them off, a parting kiss and a "give 'em hell" for Steve dropping easily from her lips, despite the muted worry), and the inner bunks were unfolded, JJ taking the helm while they caught up on sleep for the first half of the flight. The second half was dedicated to preparations, suits and weapons removed and cleaned. Reviewing the overall plan once more, the captain turned to his team, tapping through a digital display as he spoke.

"Alright people, simple drill for this. Contraband and information recovery, through and through. Detain anyone who tries to get in the way, particularly the leaders if they are still onsite. Make sure they are coherent enough for questioning later."

A significant look was shot from him to the cockpit, to the redhead at the console. She had taken over the controls from the AI, determining a human touch would be needed for landing. Half turning, Natasha rolled her eyes, a smirk gracing her lips.

"I still maintain that the guy shoved his own head into that pipe," the Black Widow reiterated, and the captain blew a sharp breath out of his nose.

Sam snorted at that, muttering low under his breath, "After a few heavy kicks to the groin."

He shared a humorous look with the auburn-haired young woman to his left. The female Maximoff said nothing, but the tiniest quirk of her lips told him that she was sharing in his sentiments at the moment. Rhodey, tending to his suit, was visibly shaking with repressed laughter.

"Keep damage to a minimum," the captain interjected, his gaze settling on each member at hand. "We've got the Vision on the horn in case we need him, but I don't anticipate that."

Not unless the enemy knew they were coming, and turned the potential contraband—in this case, illegal artillery—on them when they approached. Only then would the Vision be summoned. For the moment, he was hovering somewhere in the stratosphere, tagging along and watching over all.

Rhodey nodded, pulling himself to his full height and placing his hands on his hips. "Still, better to be alert and prepared."

Steve dipped his chin in agreement, and when his team indicated their understanding of the general plan, he tapped into the channel reserved for the secondary team. They were, no doubt, poised outside of the Spanish facility, and waiting for the captain to touch base with them.

"ETA's five minutes for us," he told the de facto leader, Chapman. The other man hummed eagerly.

"Primed and ready on our end, Captain," he reported, Scouse accent hitting hard into the microphone. "Permission to move out?"

"Granted. Keep me posted."

A grunt came from the other end. "Oo-rah."

Steve sighed, raising his eyes to the roof of the quinjet. "Wrong branch, Chapman."

"Pardon me," was Joe's quick response, affecting a posh accent now. Coughing gruffly, the other man went on in a droll tone, "Some of us did grow up without giving a toss about the _American_ military. Shocking, I know..."

"Save it for later, Union Jack," the captain cut him off, not willing to prolong the conversation. There was too much to do to waste time chatting on the radio line. As if able to see his exasperation, and reading it clearly in his voice, the secondary team leader chuckled.

"Cheers," he signed off, calling out to his team once more before the line went quiet. Clearing his throat, Steve went ahead to his floor locker, removing the last piece of equipment needed: his helmet. Strapping it on, he locked the fasteners into place on the floor just as Natasha announced their descent. Grabbing the bars overhead with one hand, he made his way over to the others. Sam shot him a serious look, adjusting his armor and the straps of his wing pack, goggles sliding into place easily. Red traced over the black Kevlar weave, much better protection than he had two years ago. Rhodey gave him a similar glance, words unspoken but still exchanged in that silent look. Once the jet was grounded, he would step into his suit, War Machine at the ready. Wanda picked at the uniform swathing her frame, the shades of scarlet encompassing her torso, her fingers moving to the black microfiber weave of her leggings, heavy boots on her feet. Of all of them, she appeared the most nervous. Though the kid had been in successive battles in the days of Ultron, she had since been avidly keeping herself off the field. While she had been trained in combat to some extent, the ordeal of those days had shaken her, drove her to first perfect herself before allowing herself to join the fray. Any missions she took were strictly recon or contact missions, without any chance of combat.

Today, that had to change. They needed every hand on deck for the procedure to go even remotely smoothly. And, in his mind, Steve thought she might be ready for some actual action. She was ready to face the evils of the world on her own, without her brother. As the Black Widow guided the quinjet to land, he dictated the split-off. Nat would attempt to find the purported computer terminals, which were supposed to be somewhere underground. However, there was a second group of terminals somewhere else in the base, and it would be his job to find them so a complete data sweep and mining could be done. It wouldn't only be his job.

"Wanda, you're with me," he told the girl as the jet cycled down, touching the ground smoothly. As the hatch lowered, he waited for her to unstrap from her seat, ushering her to follow behind him. With SHIELD standard stealth equipment installed, the jet would be able to hide in plain sight for the time being. Outside, the air was warm, sweat popping up on his brow beneath the helmet and suit. Bidding the others to go ahead to the base, he murmured to the young woman, "Stay on my six, keep an eye out for any insurgents."

Inhaling deeply, she nodded, a flicker of red crossing her eyes momentarily. Preparing herself, he mused inwardly. She had to be preparing herself.

"Yes, Captain," she said aloud, and with that, the two were pattering after their teammates.

The base was not set in any proper city, so at least that worked in their favor for attack. Less collateral damage to be done that way. On first appearance, it just looked like an office building built on the outskirts, but they knew better than to trust that. Rather than risk a full frontal assault, the Avengers would be using a diversion, Rhodey and Sam drawing off enemy fire while the others would use a side entrance revealed in their captured intel. Miniatures sensors, stored in the captain's belt pouches, were linked in to JJ, and when they were placed anywhere on a building's floor, they would be able to scan it and provide a digital blueprint for them to go off of. Passing a few sensors off to Natasha, she dipped her chin once, a blur of red hair and black suit whirling by as she went to work. Wanda watched her go with wide eyes, tripping carefully after Steve as they made their way down the halls.

"Alright, focus, Maximoff," he muttered, distracting her from the headiness of the swirling emotions and souls buzzing near at hand. Finding a deserted stairwell, they listened for a moment as screams and shouts rang out in the courtyard, the distant footfalls of running adversaries heading out to engage the enemy. Warily, the pair trod carefully up a stairwell, a sensor secured under the banister. "You sense anything off as we go, let me know."

"Got it," she returned, hyper-aware of her surroundings now. Green eyes tracked around them, watching out for any incoming enemies, but as they ascended none came. She seemed to be about ready to breathe a sigh of relief when they reached the top landing, and before Steve could warn her against doing so, a crackle came over the comms.

"Rogers, Maximoff. Alarms are tripped," Natasha's smooth voice alerted them. A shuffle and a grunt came through, but she spoke up again soon enough. "The security system is a lot more sensitive than we thought. Got a couple locked down, but more will be coming your way."

"Copy that," the captain responded quickly, swinging his hand back and detaching his shield. Securing it to the electromagnetic fasteners on his gauntlet, he spared a swift glimpse at Wanda. "Brace yourself, kid."

The closest she got to doing such a thing was her tightening her shoulders. Testing the door, it was unsurprising to find it locked. The screech of alarm bells rang in the stairwell, and they were effectively locked out. Rearing back, Steve kicked at the latch of the door, busting it open after two more kicks. Spilling out onto an open floor, devoid of any furniture or equipment whatsoever, they broke into a light jog just as dark-garbed insurgents busted in from the far end. Bolting ahead, the captain made sure he was bodily blocking Maximoff from harm, ready to take the first blows. As he flung his shield, catching it on the rebound and spinning bodily over the first two assailants, hexes shot forward, wrenching into the opponents who dared to get too close to the Scarlet Witch. Auburn hair flowed and stirred even when she stood still, the mystic energies pouring off of her into the attackers. Fingers splayed, she tore into one after another, punches and jabs accompanied by the ring of the bouncing vibranium. Fortunately, the onslaught did not number many, and it was only a short time later that the two had finished with the fight, no worse for the wear.

Tapping into the channel to speak to JJ, Steve inquired as to what he was reading so far as to floor plans. Contraband was hidden throughout the facility, the major stores being on the second floor in the private offices. As predicted, the second bank of computer terminals was somewhere on their floor, supposedly in what once was a conference room. It was situated off the middle of the open space, through a set of glass doors. However, when he looked around to find the entrance to such a room, he could see that none existed. It was sheer wall from end to end. Perhaps the blueprints were incorrect? Before he could say anything to that, he caught Wanda eyeing up the wall, too. As she stretched out her arm, he watched her tread slowly towards the middle of it, her eyes wide and her brow furrowing.

"What are you—"

"Behind this wall, I can sense them. Sense more of them," Wanda breathed in a hushed tone, her hands spread upon the blank wall. The waves of soldiers they'd encountered were not the entire staff onsite; some, it turned out, were hiding, waiting for them to leave before they would make their way out. Tapping lightly, the wall made a hollow sound. Clearly the blueprint was correct and an opening had once been there, plaster hastily constructed over it to cut off outside entry. Sharing a glance with her, the captain hooked his shield onto the back harness. Taking a step closer, he was stopped by a sharp gesture. Shaking her head, she murmured, "Wait, let me..."

Scarlet danced across her green irises, the eerie glow indicative of her drawing on her power. Manifesting the bright red auras in her palms, she spread them along the wall again. Hexes were left behind where she touched, signifying the weak spots on the drywall. After a few seconds, she pulled away, fingers still extended to maintain the points.

"Okay, go ahead," she whispered, tipping her head to him and waiting for him to begin.

At her prompting, Steve drew back his arm, sharp jabs straight from his shoulder cracking through the marked plaster to the other side. Muted shrieks and yells echoed through the holes. They grew louder when he started to kick at the weakened drywall, chunks of it falling away like punctured scraps of paper. On the last kick, he ended up striking one of the agents on the other side, a winded gasp choked out as he pulled back. The last of the wall was smashed away, the adversaries within bursting through to make a last, desperate stand. They swarmed over them, throwing whatever they could at the two Avengers, hoping to take at least one of them out. Some of the pack peeled away, making a break for it down the stairs, while others put up a fight, one of them managing to sneak up behind Wanda and viciously pull on her hair, making her shriek and wrenching her down to the ground. Steve, spotting this, flipped his shield with his foot, kicking it out to bounce off the guy's back. Sending a pulsing hex through herself to her stunted adversary, she knocked him out clean with a harsh punch of her own. Scrambling back to her feet, she followed after the captain into the abandoned conference room. The digital computer banks looked similar to the ones they had back at their own base, though perhaps a few shades cruder in terms of set-up. Gesturing her forward, he tapped in to connect with Nat.

"Alright, we've got access," he told her, eyes scanning the terminal for at least one available USB port. Quickly, Maximoff prodded his arm, pointing out one connected to a nearby router. Fishing the jump-drive out of one of his belt pouches, he slid it in. "Port One, in."

"Port Two, in," Natasha crowed back, a clack of fingers hitting keys reaching his ears. He inclined his head, took a breath.

"Go to work, Widow."

For a brief few seconds, their floor was quiet, the only sounds coming from the chirping terminals and the rapid dissemination of information flying across the digital monitors. All that would be needed would be to call the police, and then...

"Captain," Wanda cried, her posture suddenly going rigid. Her gaze flicked out the broken entrance, fastening on a point that he could not see.

"Wanda?" he queried, and his ears twitched beneath the helmet, picking up the hard tramp of boots, the gruff voices of enraged enemies, as they drew closer. "Oh, great."

Moving his shield back to his wrist, he was preempted from taking a step towards the opening by Wanda, her shielding hexes bubbling around her and making it impossible for him to follow. Jaw dropping, his eyes narrowed, shock decorating his face. The snap of doors opening made her jump, and for an instant, the shield flickered, but she recovered her composure soon enough. Understanding swiftly what she was planning on doing, Steve tried to find a way to push past, but the scorch in his mind was too much for him to bear.

"Keep going, I can do this!" she shouted back, defensive auras springing around her, her cries for whoever it was down at the other end to follow her grating. The crack of gunfire took them both by surprise, and Wanda flashed him a final look before running off, out of sight.

"Wanda!" he called out harshly, his cry nearly lost in the deafening thud of boots hitting floor and the continued bark of rounds in the air. "Damn it. How much you got, Nat?"

The Black Widow hummed for a moment, no doubt taking stock of what she'd already mined. "Not everything, but a good chunk. Falcon and War Machine are holding off the guys down here, but I'm not sure how long that will last."

A couple of insurgents broke off from the passing pack, charging headlong towards him. Using the table at the center of the room as leverage, the captain sprang up, flipping through the air and executing a flying kick. As he vaulted, he caught one guy in the chest and the other in the throat. Landing hard, he pushed himself up, a right hook and chop felling them totally. Tapping into the channel once more, he stormed out of the entrance, trotting off in the direction of screams and wails.

"Back up what you can, and execute VC-1 as soon as possible. I gotta go after Maximoff."

"Roger that," Nat responded succinctly. Signing off, Steve tracked her down to the floor below, a ring of enemies flanking her. Black tact gear and helmets obscured their faces, but he had no doubt that they were sizing her up, weighing the possibility of ease in taking her down. She'd lost the edge of her shielding auras, as her concentration was too broken to resurrect them, and so she'd settled to have her palms out, stark beams of power cutting them down one after another. Spotting another along the far wall sizing her up through the scope of his rifle, Steve felt a chill course down his spine. Sprinting at full speed, he extended his shield arm just in time to block the bullet from hitting her, with him bodily slamming into her and pulling her out of range as it ricocheted away. Jumping to his feet, he gripped her elbow, getting her into a standing position just as someone grabbed at him from behind. Vibranium smashed against skull, and the fellow dropped. As one, Captain America and the Scarlet Witch dealt with the ring of enemies, more punches and hexes flying through the space. It was difficult, as the space on the lower floor was riddled with more desks and dangerous weapon literally crated everywhere, but they were determined to make it work. In a moment, Wanda cried out the word "special," seizing the chance to end the fight once and for all. Readily, Steve complied, releasing his shield and tossing it upward.

The shield hovered midair, and her fingers flicked up at it, shots of auras throw up at it with alacrity. The vibranium repulsed the energy blasts, dashing them off and away. Directly under the shield, they remained safe, with him bent down low and her able to absorb her own hexes without issue. The beings who strayed to close to the outer edges of it were not as fortunate. The manipulated energies pelted them, shot through them, burning and spreading into their souls and forcing them to either drop unconscious or fall in frightened agony. Once the last of them had fallen victim to the auras, she let her hands drop to her sides, the shield coming down in tandem. Deftly, the captain stuck out his arm, summoning the disk to attach to his gauntlet before it could even touch the ground. When he rose to his full height, his stony gaze raked over her, satisfied in that she had not been injured, but that was the extent of it. Trying to catch her breath, Wanda looked up from her position, with her hands braced upon her knees, and she saw the glare he was directing at her. It rankled, it burned, and she quirked up her eyebrows at him.

"Cap..."

"Stay on my six," Steve barked at her, demeanor turning downright frigid in an instant. It was his commanding, no-nonsense voice, the one that demanded he be heard and listened to. Jerking a thumb back to the stairwell, he continued, "Come on."

Wordlessly, Wanda followed, stepping over the fallen gingerly as they passed. Ordering her to wait outside the conference room when they arrived, the captain ducked back in, confirming audibly that the virus codes had been implemented. Retrieving the jump-drive and stowing it away, he motioned for her to stay on his heels, neither exchanging a word as they began to gather up the unconscious attackers and zip-tie them up. It was an elimination of steps for the local authorities once they arrived, one that they happily performed. Sending out the distress signal, the police soon were swarming the place, ushered in by none other than Rhodey. At once, the crackle of radios calling for more cars and vans to haul out the criminals broke over the courtyard, most of them driving up just as Captain America and Wanda marched out the last of their attackers, forcing them to join their unfortunate compatriots on the ground. Though they'd apprehended a fair number of agents, some had managed to get away, with Sam reporting their fast departure in a black van. He'd tracked it until it disappeared down a side street, vanishing from view and never appearing again on the other side. Still, there was a sufficient number detained for questioning, and that was what counted.

One of them, with a wicked black eye blooming, a split lip and a snarl in his voice, had the temerity to look his oppressors in the eye, and when he caught Wanda's, he spat. He literally spit at her, the glob of saliva and blood splattering on her boots.

"Bitch," he sneered, though his fellow hissed at him to shut his mouth. Rumors about the horrors that could be inflicted at the young woman's hand had already circulated, and none of them wanted to find out if they were true.

Wanda visibly stiffened, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she narrowed her gaze at the offender. Looking down at the zip-tied cretin, she sniffed dramatically, pushing her hair over her shoulder. When she finally opened her mouth to speak, her voice was deceptively calm, the tiniest quaver of anger buried as deeply as possible.

"Close. It's 'Witch,' with a W," she corrected the man. Scarlet took over her irises, and the mist returned to one palm. Raising an eyebrow at her closest compatriot, the Falcon, she wondered, "His English needs some work, no?"

Before Sam could even begin to form a response, the navy, white and red uniform of their leader brushed past him. Steve pointedly stepped between her and the aggressor, his blue eyes icy cold. What had been said did not need the dignity of a response. As well as that, she had already toed the line once today; it did not need to be crossed over.

"Don't," the captain snapped in a low undertone, taking her by the arm and firmly guiding her away from the captured insurgents. On the landing of the quinjet, he released her, bidding her to help JJ cycle through takeoff protocols and make contact with the secondary team while the rest of them waited for the local authorities to finish processing the captives. His voice brooked no refusal, and his glare strongly accented the command. A puff of air blew out of her mouth, but she complied, heading inside to do as she was bid. It would be another half hour before the team would reenter the quinjet, their slight injuries ready to be treated and their desire to be away from the place evident. Dutifully, in a monotone, she told them that the other team had reported in with some success, about as much as they had achieved that day. They were headed back to London to prep for debriefing and decrypting of the intelligence they'd gathered. To that, the primary team gave various forms of approval, but the captain merely nodded, gesturing for her to move away from the console and start cleaning herself up. JJ took the controls, rocketing them upward and out of harm's way, for the time being.

Wounds were treated, with none of the team bearing any serious injuries. Sam had sustained bruising around his ribs, and Natasha had a couple of cuts along her jaw as well as a bruise on her temple, but that seemed to be the worst of it. Still, it didn't erase the fact that it could have taken a dire turn from his mind. Taking off his helmet and setting it on an inner shelf, Steve harnessed his shield and glanced around. He found what he was looking for, or rather, who. Wanda had retreated to the right wing of the jet, seemingly going through her emergency floor locker and organizing it. Huffing inwardly, he turned and approached her slowly, watching as her movements stilled for a moment. Peering at him from out the corner of her eye, she went on with her work, folding up the shirt and jeans she would change back into shortly, her palm flattening against them to remove wrinkles. Her shoulders were tight, anticipating the incoming reprimand, not relaxing even as he sat down on the bench opposite her.

"When I tell you to stay close, I mean it," he murmured after a minute. Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on his knees and his hands folded together. He watched as her expression danced between affronted and chagrined, the work of her fingers halting.

"I did not want them to stop us," she said eventually, gaze steady and meeting his fully. "What mattered was getting the information."

Immediately, the captain shook his head, the set of his jaw bordering on mulish.

"What matters is that we work together, and stick together. You only drew off a small handful of guards, and exposed yourself unnecessarily," he pointed out. Inwardly, he wondered how many times he was going to have this same conversation. If it wasn't Wanda, it was Natasha, or Clint, or someone else. The whole purpose of there being a team in the first place was so that they would have others to rely on, depend on in a tough spot. They didn't need to go it alone; that would make them easier targets, easier to maim and kill. And what good would that do them, let alone the rest of the world? "If there had been more, you would have left both yourself and me surrounded without either us being able to back up the other."

His words struck home, as accurate as if Hawkeye had driven them in with his arrows. Her gaze dropped, and she flinched slightly when she heard him shuffle in his seat. In and out, he breathed, regaining his composure.

Gentling his tone enough so that it wasn't as hard as before, he implored, "You want to prove yourself, then do so by working as a part of the team."

Steve did not move from the bench, did not move an inch until she met his eye-line again, nodding understanding. Cutting his gaze to the side, he thought back on her other actions.

"All things considered...you did pretty good today." Impetuous decisions aside, she'd held her own against multiple insurgents for the first time since Ultron's attack on the world. Her time spent in training had done her well. "And I'm sure you'll do even better in the future."

Unsure of how to respond, Wanda dipped her chin, a facsimile of a grin passing over her mouth briefly.

"Thank you, Captain."

"I'm sorry, by the way," Steve said, catching her off-guard. Shrugging a shoulder at her befuddled expression, he mused aloud, "Can't imagine this was how you wanted to spend your birthday."

Wanda blinked at that. She had not thought any of them would remember the day's significance to her. Well, nobody but Pietro, obviously, but that was to be expected.

"It's okay," she replied, a palm cupping the air. "It was important to do this. Too important to overlook."

Tilting his head to the side, Steve flicked his gaze to the right, a corner of his mouth twitching.

"Yeah, but still...for what it's worth..."

A commotion on the other side of the jet pulled her focus away from him, and she rose to her feet. Natasha strode forward, a plastic case in hand. Sam and Rhodey, sans regalia and disarmed, had a couple of gift bags in hand as well, small smiles as she gasped in shock. She had sensed there was more brewing under the surface in regards to her teammates' feelings, but she'd been so focused on coming out alive and enduring the captain's wrath that she'd only paid it half a mind. Well, she had been right. There had been a discussion among the team members about whether they should wait until they'd returned to the base to celebrate, but Nat had been the one to reason that after a mission, they could afford a break in levity. Besides, they could always have a party when they got back, anyway. In accordance to no open flames being allowed on the jet, the miniature cake that Romanoff had would not be sporting a candle.

"If things had gone sideways, this would've been more awkward, but still..." Natasha said, proffering the confection with a genuine smile. "Happy birthday, Wanda."

Humble thanks poured out of the young woman's mouth, her own grin lighting up her face. The day could have been worse, but all things considered, it wasn't so bad.

 **xXxXxXx**

Pietro leaned back in his chair, blowing up a breath. It fanned out the hair on his forehead, the silvered locks distorted. Hours, hours had been spent overhauling information, setting up a clean-up crew from Fury's helicarrier for the secret base in Spain as well as the one in Morocco, and discussing future courses of action with the primary team. Chapman took it in stride, the bigger man seeing it as no more than another day at the office, even after engaging in combat with dozens of armed recruits. That MI6 training had been good for something, at least. Night had rolled in, the streetlamps sputtering to life and black taxis carting the populace of England's capital city to and fro, their own adventures to be had. And with it, thankfully, came the time to break, to get out of the office and have a small, tame adventure of his own.

The secondary Avengers base was actually hidden in the heart of London, a block of housing down the street from the prime minister's dwelling redesigned and re-purposed for their needs. The insides had been blown out and built again, with three floors above ground made ready for use just three weeks ago. Dwellings for the team members, and the select few agents on staff, were on the top floor, with offices and a large computer bank connected to the Oracle and SHIELD's private lines on bottom two. Underground, warily toeing the line so that they didn't accidentally break through to the Tube, they had started construction on the training arenas and garages, and they were near completion. The place had a charming mix of Old World touches and digital age design (Pietro suspected that was because Tony Stark must have a hand in the project, and he wasn't quite sure how to feel about it). Exiting his private office after making a call to his sister—yes, he was fine, and yes, he had shipped her present over to her—he padded down the hall, his normally quickened pace down to a mere fast walk. Hands tucking into pockets, he could hear the sound of a keyboard being manipulated, and the hums and grunts of someone working still. Wandering in the direction of the noises, he came upon the database area, the ringed digital monitor standing with pride of place in the center of the room. Seated at it was a petite young woman, sharp cheekbones and jaw highlighted by the low glow projected by the screen. Her gazed was riveted to the data she was transcribing, fingers flying fast over the board. Idly, she scratched at her short-cropped hair, and then at the bandaged cut along her neck. Coming up beside her, Pietro let out a low whistle, impressed by her speed.

"Still at work, huh?" he queried facetiously, smirking when all she did was give him the side-eye. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned to face her, resting his hip on the edge of the desk. "Well, I'm off. Are you sure you don't want to come along, Jeanne?"

In honor of his birthday, Chapman had made it his personal duty to take him out celebrating; twenty-five was a milestone, though the elder Maximoff twin had never considered it so. As well as that, he was looking for an excuse to foster the bond between teammates through the time-honored tradition of drinking and making mistakes due to said drinking. Jacques had concurred, the agreement between Frenchman and Liverpudlian going some way to ease the ages-old disparity between their countries. Pietro wasn't certain about it all, as the alterations made due to the scepter had affected a lot of things with his body, but he wasn't about to turn down a good time. It was partially out of politeness that he asked Jeanne to join them, and partially out of concern. The eighteen-year-old had really done nothing but train and transcribe since she'd accepted a position with the team. She was very closed off from the outside world, preferring to experience it through screens or texts rather than going out into it. It didn't seem to bother her; according to her file, she'd always been something of a recluse, a product of basically having to raise herself (which Pietro called BS to; he'd lost his parents at a young age, but he still managed to maintain a healthy level of social adeptness...barring the time spent with HYDRA, of course). Well, the training was doing her well, at least; her baton work and gymnastics out in the field that day were beyond expectation, something that had stunned him and pleased Chapman greatly. Still, they were on the same team. He did not want to make her feel unwelcome.

That time, she actually looked away from the screen, tipping her head to the side.

"Thanks, but no thanks," she said, the quiet tone of her voice a touch warmer than it had been previously. Pietro took that as a good sign. Tapping a finger to her temple, she explained, "Like to keep my mind sharp; drinking doesn't let me do that."

"Only if you drink enough to kill yourself," Pietro retorted, not unkindly. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he canted his head. "I don't think you would ever not be sharp."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, but there was a hint of a grin touching her mouth. "What a weird sort of compliment. I'll take it. Still, no. I'll be here when you guys get back. Have fun."

"Alright, Jeanne," he conceded, waggling a few fingers in farewell as he turned to leave. Before he got too far, Jeanne spoke up again, physically turning in her chair to face him.

"You could ask Crystal, too, you know," she pointed out, her matter-of-fact tone returning. Pausing in his tracks, Pietro's wide-eyed gaze skittered away from hers as he considered it. The remaining member of the team might be amenable to the idea, but he wasn't so sure. Crystal was an enigma; after three months of working together, he only knew the most rudimentary things about her. Her file was sealed, only reviewed by the higher-ups, with only the fact that she was an enhanced being herself and having control over the elements revealed to them. She was the one that Fury had autonomously chosen to be a member of the team. Still, the little bits and pieces he was discovering about her were interesting, and he wouldn't be opposed to learning more...like why she'd chosen the black streaks circling in her carrot-colored hair. Or if he could make her laugh with another stupid story from his childhood with his sister; she seemed to like those, no matter how embarrassing they were for him.

To Jeanne, he dipped his chin, clearing his throat. "Chapman, he said she said she would think about it. Looks like it will just be him, me, and Duquesne."

"Again, _you_ could ask her," Jeanne emphasized, her dark eyes lighting up knowingly. "She might take an appeal from the birthday boy."

His hands dug deep into the pockets of his jacket, and he became fascinated with the toe of his sneaker.

"Maybe..."

"Yo, Crystal!" Jeanne shouted then, the sudden nature of it making him jump nearly out of his skin. She never raised her voice to that level, not even when she was giving her all in a training bout. Then, when he realized what she was doing, he shot her an incredulous look. It was gone in an instant, once Crystal poked her head out of her office. She'd not gone upstairs to her apartment yet; her portion of the projects they were responsible for were still being worked on. Off her inquisitive glance, Jeanne smiled broadly (another first, and it jarred Maximoff to see that, too). "Pietro wants to talk to you about something!"

The younger girl wheeled around in her chair, washing her hands of the whole affair in that instant, with her fingers returning to the keyboard and purposefully typing away. Shaking her head and snickering, Crystal turned her jade-colored gaze off of her to the man nearby.

"Yes?" she asked him, coming fully out of her door and leaning against the jamb. Crossing her arms, she waited, giving Pietro a pleasant and polite grin. Clearing his throat once more, he flapped a hand in the air, lifting a shoulder.

"I know Joe already spoke to you, but if you want, you're still welcome to come down to the pub with us," he invited her, trying his hardest to not make it sound like a desperate plea. As she tilted her head, her carroty hair shifted, and his focus darted from her face to it and back again. "Is just a stupid birthday thing, so if you don't want to go, it's alright."

Her eyes scanned over his face for a moment, and her eyebrows rose minutely.

"Actually...I've changed my mind." She tossed a glance over her shoulder to the paperwork still waiting to be finished, and grimaced. "I could do with a break from work."

"And Lockjaw?" he blurted then, regretting it the moment it came out of his mouth. He didn't want to insult her pet, her closest friend, and his tone made it sound just like he was. Her faithful dog companion was nearly always by her side, trotting after her and trying to sneak onto the issued quinjet whenever she was selected for mission work. The oversized bulldog was remarkably agile, and while Pietro did not give the idea any credence, he could not help the feeling that the animal watched him, watch them all. Watched them, and understood what was going on. Those big, round eyes, always seeing, always watching...his shoulders twitched at the thought, an subconsciously attempt to shake off his thoughts. However, Crystal chuckled at that, and he managed a partial grin n relief.

"And Lockjaw. He might be happy to have the run of the apartment for a few more hours," she agreed, threaded a hand through her bright tresses. Taking a glance down at the uniform she was still wearing, she frowned a little to herself. She needed to change; there was no way she was going out in a black and yellow jumpsuit, not even in London. People inevitably made comparisons between her and a katana-wielding bride, and it annoyed her to no end. "Let me go throw on something else. I'll meet you guys downstairs in about fifteen minutes, yeah?"

"Yes, we'll see you there," Pietro returned brightly, waving as she moved off to the elevator bank at the back. Once she'd boarded and was whisked away, he let go of the breath he'd been holding, pleasure coursing through him in an instant. A small clearing of a throat jerked him out of his reverie, and when he turned back to look at the source, he caught the smarmy grin spreading from ear to ear on Jeanne's face. Adopting an air of nonchalance, she was inspecting her nails, her affection almost amusing.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" she inquired politely, her usual deadpan tone brightened slightly. Flicking her eyes up at him, he rolled his in response, and her smile stretched a little further. There was only so much she could put up with, and those two had been somewhat dancing around each other since practically the first day.

"Shut up, Jeanne," he muttered, screwing up his brow as he thought, "You bussy...erm...bus..."

"English idioms still eluding you a bit? 'Busybody,' is the term you're looking for." Jeanne pulled a face at that and she gave a mock shiver. "And a poorer descriptor for myself I have yet to hear."

"That's what you want us all to think," Pietro scoffed.

"And on that note, shoo. Go out, get tanked, whatever," she told him, actually doing the shooing motions with her hands. "Make sure Jacques doesn't get into any duels."

Pulling out his phone and firing off a text to let the other fellows know about the addition to their party, he snorted at her words. "Like he would."

"If it affects his oh-so-touchy French honor and pride, he would. Ponce," she derided him, mockingly affecting Chapman's accent as she did so. It was a good thing swords were no longer seen as practical, otherwise he would definitely be packing his weapon of choice. He would have made a great musketeer, she mused inwardly. Once again, the young man nearby rolled his eyes.

"You have no room to talk. You are French, too, are you not?"

"French-Canadian, technically," she corrected him mildly, pointing a finger at him. "There is a difference. I'm more laid back."

The deadpan look he shot at her really said it all, and she legitimately chuckled. It had to have been his birthday, he thought to himself, just because of all the miracles and firsts happening that day.

"Uh-huh. Well, have a good night, anyway, Jeanne," Pietro murmured, pocketing his phone and waving farewell again. "Don't stay up too late."

"Whatever," she mumbled out the side of her mouth, turning back to the computer. Waiting until he was out of earshot, boarding the elevator to join the others downstairs, she smirked and whispered, "You're welcome, Quicksilver."

 **xXxXxXx**

The dank, green halls of the underground compound rang with boot steps, despite the late hour. The overhead lights were bright, contrasting with the cast and the grit of the remainder of the surroundings, throwing it all into sharp detail. Heavy doors dotted the length of the hallway, a sentry posted outside every few feet. Three men in full tactical gear marched up from the entrance at the far end, all of similar height and build. Guns remained holstered at their hips, stun batons within easy reach on their belts. Knife sheaths stuck out from their boots, and if the weaponry wasn't impressive enough, each one was built solidly, lending credence to the idea that they would just as easily be able to kill with their bare hands. The only difference between them was that the man in the center had armor that bled white at the center of his chest, bands of it crossing and disappearing as the wound up to the shoulders and down to the waist. And unlike the other men, who had simple helmets, he had a mask carved to vaguely resemble a skull. A few of the sentries shot each other glances as he passed, holding their posts but unable to look at him directly.

The mercenary Crossbones had a reputation for a reason, new as he was to the underworld. He was hard, cruel, ruthless...and he hated anyone who had the gall to stare at him. Too many had made that mistake in the past, and he made sure they knew what a horrible choice they had made. In painstaking detail. The only people who looked at him directly were those of equal or greater power than him. Or they were damn fools. Apparently, none of the sentries in the hall fell into those categories, he mused to himself, almost outright laughing at the fear rolling off of them. Oh, well. The little runts weren't worth his time. He had a meeting to attend; he wouldn't waste time making the little suckers piss themselves in fright.

Entering the office at the far end, the mercenary grunted at his accomplices, telling them to wait outside. Nodding their compliance, he shut the door behind him, striding to the center of the room. The office itself was not overlarge, but it was arguably one of the more comfortable spaces in the compound. In comparison to what could have been available, that is. Compared to the offices of leaders that he had seen before, this one was actually rather bland. At first glance, it appeared to be very low-tech, but he knew better. Behind the bookshelves were high-speed routers, digital interfaces below the prints hanging upon the walls. Secrets were hidden below the surface, just as intended. A solid, wooden desk took up a good portion of the space, a serviceable computer and monitor set upon it. Behind it sat another man, just past his fortieth year and of a thin build. Dull brown hair was flopping into his eyes, pushed back by long fingers before they resumed clacking away at the keyboard before him. His bright, intelligent gaze was focused on the screen in front of him, unimpeded by the wire-frame glasses perched on his nose. He continued his work until he noticed the presence of another.

Exhaling softly, he finished typing his sentence before reaching out and powering off the monitor, the work set aside for the present. Leaning back in his worn chair, he motioned for his newest companion to take a seat. Silently, the fellow tipped his chin up, crossing his arms and resting a shoulder against the far wall. For some time, neither man said a word, too much to be said in a small place. Soon enough, Crossbones snorted, shaking his head. Carefully, his fingers curled around his mask, lifting it free and revealing the horrific scars that cut into his face. The man behind the desk watched him do so with disinterest; he was not cowed by the mercenary's appearance. He could, however, feel a small measure of pity. The burns and the cuts of the disaster had knitted together, breaking up what once had been considered a handsome face. But once it was scarred, so too was the man beneath them. Brock Rumlow had been scarred permanently, in more ways than one. He was smart enough, though, not to point that out in any way.

Off the other fellow's dispassionate expression, the mercenary came away from the wall, pointedly dropping his mask on the space of the desk before sitting down. Combing through his cropped dark hair, a rumble bubbled in his chest as he finally took a seat.

"That was too close," he grumbled, his gravelly tone unmistakable. It was true; the crews in Spain and Morocco were inept, too inept to keep the Avengers at bay for very long. The idiots might very well have let them walk away with everything, were it not for the emergency maneuvers forcing them back, forcing the free ones to escape.

"Naturally; that's how it is with everything that involves Captain America and his crew of thugs," retorted the other fellow mildly. Sighing under his breath, he turned away from the files on the desk before him, pinching the bridge of his nose and glancing up. "How much did they get?"

Rumlow's expression hardened.

"Some things. Not everything. But we lost enough that we can't get back, either." Barely biting off a snarl, he closed his eyes, hands gripping the arm rests of his chair in a strangling grip. Precious data, plans, had been mined and stolen, and it did not sit well with him. That they had been stolen by a self-righteous bastard and the misguided idiots who called themselves his teammates was just salt in the wound. "They introduced a virus to destroy even a majority of the back-ups."

The other man tapped his thumb against his chin, mulling over the information for a moment. Taking off his glasses, he cleaned them with a handkerchief drawn from his pocket. A deep frown crawled over his lips as he concentrated on swiping the cloth over each lens.

"Klaue let his greed and hatred get the better of him. Not surprising."

"Does he need to be cut?"

The man with the glasses sat up straighter, a wry smirk on his lips as he placed the spectacles back on his face.

"I think he's suffered from that penalty already." A macabre flash of humor passed between them, little vindictive gleams in their eyes as they mused upon the unfortunate man in question. When they had approached the black market arms dealer, enticing him with a deal to outfit their crews and steal necessary contraband, they had known the fellow had his own scores to settle with the Avengers. They inadvertently caused him to lose his arm, after all, among other things. Even with the robotic prosthetic provided by the bespectacled man's tech team, he harped upon it. His attitude and brashness were bound to get the better of him, and the incident in Morocco punctuated that truth. He'd grown cocky, letting his crew surface too much on the radar and tempting the Avengers. The fact that he'd gotten out before the raid was disconcerting, but not enough to worry them overmuch. Considering this, the compatriot shook his head. "Still...no, not yet. He serves his purpose, and we need him to keep doing so. For now, we need to work quietly. In the shadows. No more overt moves before it is time."

"And when will that be?" the mercenary snapped, causing his fellow to raise an eyebrow. Of course, he grumbled inwardly, he would look like the idiot for asking. But the question merited an answer; after all, he'd been working and building up to get his revenge against the Avengers, specifically Captain America, for over a year now. He wanted to strike soon, and strike hard, but going off his accomplice's expression, it would not be for some time.

"We'll know when it comes, Mr. Rumlow. Patience is a virtue, after all." Bright eyes flicked over him, a snide grin pulling at his mouth. "Though some of us know how to practice it better than others."

Another bout of silence followed, with each man mired in their separate thoughts and plans. Though they had been nominally working together for several months now, they had individual scores and runs to make, to settle. Their common goal united them, but they both knew that one could not hinder the other in their private endeavors. Waiting was going to have to be another thing they shared, and Rumlow was uncertain that he wanted any part of it. It made his teeth grind, thinking about how he'd fallen in with another organization, another set of rules and broken leaders. He had finished with that the moment he'd regained consciousness after the Triskelion fell, or so he swore. After this was done, he would be, he promised himself.

Suddenly, the other man jerked out of his private reverie, looked at him again. "What news of the asset?"

Blinking, the mercenary leaned back in his chair, a hand tipping up to cup the air.

"Gone. Somewhere secret. Word is that he's...beyond reach now, anyway," he amended his statement. His sources, few as they were, had told him that the Winter Soldier's mind had been broken, freed from the chains HYDRA had forced onto him. That long and that far away from his would-be handlers, there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd come back. Forcing him wasn't much of an option, either. "He's been free for a year and a half now; I don't think he'd be redeemable even if we found him again."

Pliable was what he meant, but he was understood either way. The man on the other side of the desk quirked his brows up, but he did not look defeated at the news. Rather, he was simply...curious. He glanced at the blank screen of the monitor, his thumb tapping at his chin once again.

"Perhaps not." His bright gaze met the darkening one of his fellow, a slight glimmer crossing the irises. "We shall see."

"Patience." That time, the mercenary did growl. He hated waiting; he'd done plenty of it when he was a spy, when he was a soldier. He was completely over the idea now that he had the liberty and license to do as he pleased. How much longer was he going to have to wait? The want for the captain's blood, to grind him into dust—and that stupid flying crony of his, too—was strong, growing with each passing day. Still, his compatriot maintained his placid expression.

"As much as that seems to be a dirty word to you, Rumlow, yes. We have to be patient." Sitting forward, he laced his fingers together, hands resting on the desk and firmness on his face. "We will always have another chance."

Willing himself to calm down, to breathe slowly, Rumlow pushed back his seat. There would be a chance. It would come. Or, if his partner did not make it come fast enough, he would make it happen himself. For now, though, they had to withdraw, and he would do so.

"Fine, then."

* * *

 **A/N:** Another long one, holy crap...to whoever asked me how I was able to churn out this much consistently...I still have no idea. Thank God for it, that's all I have to say.

So many things happening in this chapter. First of all, hello action sequences...I'm still, um, I guess okay at writing you. Not too sure about it, but I did my best. Also, I looked around and couldn't find an actual birthday for Wanda and Pietro, not as far as the MCU goes, so I just picked one. Hope that's okay with you all! And quick flash of the villains here. Like they say, they have to be patient and wait for their chance to strike, so don't expect them to attack, like, tomorrow. Trust me, this fic is nowhere near over yet; it will take some time.

No Holly this time, save by brief mention, but she'll be coming back very soon. Next chapter might be a little late next week. I have the opportunity to go home and visit with my family for an extended period of time, so I'll be spending as much quality time with them as I can. So if it does turn out that I don't post until after next Tuesday, please be patient!

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own the characters borrowed from the Marvel Comic universe (Union Jack, Crystal, Finesse-whose background I tweaked again, which I don't think really detracts from how she is presented in the comics-and Swordsman). Any other pop culture references (such as the brief one from _Kill Bill_ and from _LEGO Marvel Avengers_ ) are ones that I also do not own.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

 **EDIT:** I have a new mature one-shot posted on my AO3 entitled, _Paint the Target._ It takes place between the end of _The Eleventh Hour_ and the beginning of this story. Check it out if you're of the proper age and maturity; I have the same username there as here-PhantomProducer.


	5. Chapter 5

A yawn rose from deep within, and Holly blinked sleepily. Another Monday, another week to start in archival records, she mused privately, sipping from her travel mug as she padded quietly down the hall to the elevator. Her bag flopped against her hip as she moved, some records taken home for sorting the evening before within (done without permission, but she wasn't about to announce that to her supervisor). As she descended towards the appropriate floor, she took another swig of her drink and winced at the burn on her tongue. She wished she could have Steve's enthusiasm for mornings; how that man was able to operate on a minimum of a few hours of sleep and was still chipper when the sun rose was beyond her. At least he had the coffee ready for her when she dragged herself out of bed. Smart man, she thought to herself as a tired grin spread. Very smart man.

The base was already bustling and thrumming with activity, the various halls and departments humming and echoing with the voices of the other employees there. There was more to the Avengers than showing up and saving the world. They had to be supplied, had to be supported, had to have appropriate data and intelligence to operate with before heading into the fray. It was over all this that Maria Hill stood watch, no longer team liaison but a director in her own right. Holly hadn't seen much of her in those days, given how she was consistently busy with more things than ever, but she appeared to be thriving, in the brief glimpses she did catch of her. She was doing better than she did as Stark's assistant, at least. This was her element, this was where she belonged.

For her part, Holly wondered if she ever would belong there. The world she inhabited now, tame as it was in comparison to her husband's experiences, was still vastly different from what she was used to. Still, the fact that she had an office job helped...even if the records for that office job blew her mind at times. What SHIELD had done, been responsible for, was fascinating, in a stunning way. Shaking her head and removing herself from her inner reverie, she swiped her security pass at the outer door, yawning again as she was granted access. Passing the reception desk (which seemed odd to her, but then again, they would get the singular visitor or lost intern on occasion) she waved the fingers of her free hand at the woman stationed there, a mumbled greeting passing between them as she made her way back to her private office. Bland walls of white and gray slid by, the blue weave of the carpet beneath her feet cushioning each step.

"Morning, Holly," came a voice from the side hallway the one that led back to the storage units. Glancing in its direction, she managed a weak smile for its owner. The fellow shot her one back, going some way to make his brown eyes warm up despite the chill of the morning. Todd was a decent guy, one of the few who actually made the effort to get along with his coworkers no matter their rank or title. At the very least, he treated her well enough, no matter her connections or her lack of an advanced degree. He slowed down his long stride to move in step with her—he even over-topped Steve by a couple inches—and raked a hand back through his dark curls, trying in vain to make them sit properly.

"Hey, Todd," she said, eyeing up the stack of papers tucked under his arm. Dipping her chin at it, she inquired, "New project?"

"Yeah, they're moving me onto some 1952 recon transcripts." He rolled his eyes, and she sighed through her nose. It seemed like the department was continually shifting priorities every few days. Todd shook his head and smirked down at her. "Was anything in order before we moved here?"

"Supposedly," Holly retorted, flapping a hand superfluously in the air. "But hey, it's what we're getting paid for. And I'd rather trudge through this than field work."

A simultaneous shudder wracked both of them. Neither man nor woman had an inclination towards field work, unless there was a dire need for it and literally no other option.

"Good point. What about you? You still on photograph detail?" he asked her, referencing her own projects over the last few months. As a junior archivist, Holly's clearance and workload were somewhat less hefty than her superiors. At least, that had been her experience up until that point.

"Off and on." Biting her lip, she was unsure if she should share the information given. She had been assigned a somewhat larger project than before, the email coming in the night before to inform her. A meeting with the supervisor for some briefing was scheduled, but she did not know if what she would be doing would be common knowledge. Blinking, she tipped her head to the side and sized up Todd out the corner of her eye. It probably wouldn't hurt to let him in on the outline of the workload; it was unlikely that he would go blabbing about it to everyone within the first five minutes of the workday. "They want me to start making headway on the recent additions to the Strucker files. Something about how being at ground zero when that went down made me qualified."

Eyebrows shot up, and Todd blew out a short whistle.

"Lucky you," he intoned sardonically, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. She just shot him a look, one that he reciprocated blandly. He knew about her, her background, her connections, just as much as the next person. He could understand the reasoning behind giving the records over to her, since she was literally in the thick of it when the business with the baron and the subsequent aftermath happened, but it was bound to be unpleasant for her. The dark look in Holly's gaze reflected the truth of that.

"I didn't think so at the time. Not sure I do now."

Silence dropped between them, neither of them willing to go to the effort of breaking it. Another glance was shot in her direction, and she lifted a shoulder at it. They arrived at the back bank of offices, just beyond the break and conference rooms.

"Either way, better get crackin'," Todd announced then, tapping the file folders in hand and touching his fingers to his temple in a mock salute.

"Yeah, see ya," she bid him farewell, watching him turn left down the hall. Sighing again, she strode up to her office door, to the right and around the corner from the main track. Unlocking it, she went in, turning on the lights and pulling open the shades covering the inset glass window. The furniture within struck her, as always, as looking as though it was brought straight from the IKEA warehouse. Streamlined, dark tones, nothing she would have personally picked. At least the computer and digital displays provided were top-notch Stark Tech; she could appreciate having those. It made compiling and sorting digital transfers and documents that much easier. The bag she'd carried was flopped on the desktop, her travel mug drained and set to one side. Glancing at the clock on the far wall, she smoothed down her clothes and left things as they were. She had a meeting to attend; she didn't want to be late.

Several hours later, Holly was raking a hand through her hair, knocking her ponytail askew as she did so. The files she'd been granted access to were...illuminating. And very disturbing, in some cases. Papers were scattered across the desktop, an opened filing box at her feet. The others had been carted in, shunted into the far corner to be combed through later. One of them, the one with Strucker's social and not-so-social connections, she knew had already been sorted through with confidence, but she would still have to make the transfer into the digital files eventually. For now, she was turning over a page, outlining the architectural revisions done to his family's seat in Germany, the grand property recently turned over and searched due to his arrest back in May. In the grand scheme of the archives, his contributions would be miniscule, but Holly knew the project was going to take some time. Far longer than she had been expecting, she noted wryly. Taking out the tie and combing through her hair to settle it again, she had assembled the ponytail as her eyes drank in every bit of information in front of her. What to lose, what to keep, where in the stack would the information need to be place...her mind was being pulled in multiple directions. Failing to hear the commotion happening in the hall, her attention was grabbed when a few sharp raps tapped against the glass inset of the door. Looking up, an unbidden grin swept over her mouth, and she motioned for the knocker to come in.

Turning the handle swiftly, Steve entered the space, eyes bright and a corner of his mouth lifting. One hand tucked a security pass into a pocket on his belt pack (from the waist up, he passed for normal with the athletic shirt, but from the waist down he was dressed for action; his boots and uniform pants allowed him to be ready at a moment's notice to leave, if he had to). The other, hidden behind his back, came forward, bearing a brown paper bag, the smell of takeaway pasta permeating the room.

"Got some delivery here for a Mrs. Rogers?" he said, giving the bag a little shake as he did so. Her eyebrows rose a little; the obvious pleasure he got out of calling her that still took her aback sometimes...and warmed her heart, as well. Some people scoffed at her adoption of Rogers, scorning her for it, but she brushed it off. Not all traditions were bad ones.

In any case, she couldn't be bothered by it at that moment. He'd brought food, something she'd neglected to remember to bring with her that morning. Her stomach growled, and she sat back in her chair. It was time for her lunch break, anyway.

"Not sure about that, but I'm not saying no to the delivery man," she replied, standing up and leaning over her desk, him striding forward and meeting her partway for a kiss. Though they worked at the same base, it was very rare of them to have lunch together. It must have been a light morning for training, if he was able to come all the way downstairs without hindrance. Gesturing for him to sit in the single visitor's chair, she started scooping up the documents to clear a space. "Gotta say, I'm kinda surprised to see you here. Word around the base is that you guys don't even eat at all."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "People say that?"

Holly nodded; the rumor mill was very much alive and active. "Well, they say _you_ don't; supposedly you push the team to the brink daily in training without a single break."

He rolled his eyes at that, dropping the bag of food on the cleared desk. "Not true, as you well know."

She smiled wanly, her eyes holding a note of weariness. "For today, at least."

He mirrored her expression, both of them aware of the grain of truth hidden within. Well, it never could be said that Captain America did not take his job or duties seriously. Leaving it at that, he started pulling the containers out, while she ran down the hall to the vending machine for drinks. The food was divvied between them, having been procured from the cafeteria pretty much directly after being cooked. After kidding him about abusing his line-jumping privileges, the conversation turned towards other things. Mostly, it was about family; Holly's brother Hank was, apparently, becoming more involved with a woman he'd met a few months back, to the point that she'd been introduced to his daughter. Considering the stories he'd heard about the guy's ex-wife, the new girlfriend sounded at least more stable than her. Her sister Heather had called, complaining how her eldest boy had taken it upon himself to start throwing every disk-shaped object he came across, just because "Uncle Steve does it!" He grimaced at that, despite chuckling; no doubt he was losing points with his sister-in-law. Holly had laughed outright when she told her, which pissed her off even more. It wasn't like _she_ could do anything about it, anyway. When she spoke about her mother getting in touch with her regarding the upcoming holidays, he winced. The varying nature of Steve's work could not allow them to plan for those sorts of things, much as he knew it bothered his wife. Still, even she professed it to be too early for thinking that far ahead (they had just gotten into October, after all), and the matter had been dropped for the time being.

Steve watched as her gaze darted behind him, focusing on something before returning to him again. It had happened several times in the course of eating and chatting, and it made him curious.

"What is it?" he asked, half turning his head to look. Immediately, she shook her head, dissuading him from the action. In his peripheral vision, he caught the blur of a person bustling away.

"Lot of people are loitering outside my office," she intoned mildly, stirring through her food and smirking. Shooting him a significant look, she continued, "Can't imagine why."

"That happen often?" he wondered, purposefully concentrating on the forkful of pasta he was wrestling with. She shrugged, spearing a piece of chicken and popping it into her mouth.

"Only about as often as when my legendary superhero husband shows up at work with lunch."

He tipped his head to the side, cutting a glance to his right. "I could say something, if you want."

Fingers flicked in the air, brushing the matter aside. "Nah, they're just looking. So long as we don't start tearing into each other next, I think we're good."

Steve's hand stilled midair, fork dangling as his eyebrow spiked and his smirk turned a touch more feral.

"Think about that a lot, do you?"

"Not for _my_ office," she replied, the lack of denial making him focus more intently on her. A flare of pink decorated her cheeks even as she snickered. "I don't have blackout controls and soundproofing here."

Being a member of the world's foremost specialist task force definitely had its perks, and he'd certainly reaped the benefits of it for his public office upstairs. The privacy measures were appealing; maybe they could be acted upon, one day.

"That is...a very interesting point." He tipped his head up, considering the ceiling tile for a few moments. "Hmm."

"Yeah, you ponder that," she giggled, taking another bite and swallowing. Glancing up again, she let out a muted groan. "Incoming."

He dropped his gaze back to her, brow furrowing. "Huh?"

She had no time to answer as a pink blur fluttered into the office. When it settled, it took the form of an older woman, frizzing auburn curls springing away from a headband matching her ensemble. Encumbered by the pink day dress and heels, she let the door slam shut behind her, eyes blinking owlishly despite her whirlwind entrance.

"Holly," the woman gushed breathlessly. Flicking her gaze between Steve and her, she shrugged slightly. "Sorry to interrupt."

"It's..." Holly trailed off, not sure what she could say. It wasn't a welcome interruption, but it had happened, and she didn't have to be rude about it. "What's up, Melanie?"

Another stack of files appeared then, dropping out of the woman's grasp to her left.

"Todd found a few things mixed in with his files, stuff about the Von Strucker legacy," she told her, bending down and flipping open the top folder. Her finger jabbed at a few lines of text, and Holly obliged her by leaning forward to read them. "He wanted me to pass these onto you, since you're responsible for the technically-new acquisitions."

Looking up, Holly caught the look of intense concentration Steve had now, the curiosity doubled in his irises. Tucking her palms around them, she slid the files over, nodding her thanks.

"Okay, cool," she responded, attempting to keep a nonchalant tone. "I'll sort through these when my break's up."

"Awesome," the older woman proclaimed, hooking a thumbs-up at her. Heading back to the door, she stopped, meeting Steve's eye squarely as she did so. "And, oh yeah, Captain Rogers, I suggest making a fast exit when you do leave. Some of the senior archivists might try to corner you into helping them with the accuracy of the pre-SHIELD files. If needed, I can smokescreen, but that will only last so long."

Steve donned a wavering, lackluster grin, inclining his head at her. Picking up on the tromps and slow gaits of the people still milling in the hall, he figured he would have to take her up on the offer. For her part, Holly smiled a little.

"Thanks again, Mel." Another thumbs-up, and Melanie flew out the door, the force of the door slamming making both of them jump. A few seconds of blessed silence followed, and Steve blew out a careful breath.

"...She seems nice," he murmured eventually. Holly snorted, but her expression remained positive.

"She's very enthusiastic about this department. Which can help or hinder, depending on the day." All words a testament to the truth; Melanie had been an archivist before the helicarrier disaster, and she was one of the few overjoyed to be contacted to pick up where she'd left off in her career with SHIELD. All this Holly had found out in her first meeting with the woman who would end up being her supervisor; if she had a tendency to be forthright, it was nothing compared to the older woman's audacious over-sharing. "I don't mind her. We get along, at least."

Steve nodded, the neutral cast to his features taking a decidedly grim turn. His focus latched onto the files that had just been delivered, the labeling on them standing out starkly against the dark grain of the desk.

"They've got you working on things about Strucker."

One grimace reflected at the other as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Yep. Due to my _experience_ ," Holly broke off, curling her fingers in air quotes around the word, "I get to relive the week from hell. I'm so pleased."

The sarcasm nearly smacked Steve in the face, it came out so hard and fast. Unconsciously, she started to run a finger over the scar above her eyebrow. The line had not faded overmuch, a harsh reminder of the aftermath of Strucker's detainment, the days that led to both Ultron and his demise. Putting his container down, Steve reached out, gently removing her hand from her forehead and squeezing it.

"If you don't like it, can't you, I don't know, trade with someone, or put it off?" he wondered, knowing the answer just from the look on her face.

"That just makes things more complicated." And it was; while her superiors had no problems shifting people around as they chose, it didn't go over well when someone else tried to change projects on their own accord. As well as that, much as it was a painful subject, she couldn't exactly bring herself to give it up. Her irises lit up a little as she focused on the stack of boxes behind him, her inquisitive nature asserting itself. "And, well...I'm curious. I'm curious about the man who started the whole damn mess in May."

"You're not going to like what you find," he warned her, jaw setting. He had read the reports and transcripts long before they'd ever made it down to any sort of archives. He knew a great deal about Strucker, what he'd done, what he'd planned to do. His experiments on Wanda and Pietro were the tip of a very big iceberg, and he didn't like the idea of Holly being exposed to that. Not when the entire debacle was still right behind them.

"I don't expect otherwise. I haven't so far, from what I've experienced and looked through," she retorted, brown gaze meeting blue. Tightening her grip in his, she tipped her free palm up. "But..."

After a second or two, he nodded in understanding. She wanted to know; far be it from him to get in the way of it, particularly as it was now her job to do so. He didn't care for it, but he couldn't stop it from happening. Chiming sounds came from his pocket, breaking the stillness. Releasing her, he grumbled under his breath as he dug his phone out, thumb sliding across the screen to accept the call. Taking up her nearly-empty container again, she listened with half an ear as Steve fielded a couple of questions, his gaze running over her on and off. Promising to get back to the caller as soon as possible, he hung up after a couple of minutes. The device was dropped back into his pocket, and the furrow on his brow had lessened somewhat.

"That was John. He's got another for us, if we're willing to swing by after work," he told her, scratching at the curve of his jaw. She let out a low hum. Another house...in the past month, they'd seen a decent number, with no settling on one. Inhaling sharply, she tapped a finger on the desk.

"That's possible?"

"The seller isn't in-state, and has given permission for tonight, at least."

Her chin dipped, and she narrowed her gaze at him in concern. "Can you manage? You have anything lined up on your end?"

The corner of his mouth turned up, eyes lighting up a little. "Barring any world disasters, I think I can sneak away for a bit."

Lowly, she exhaled, trying to disguise the sigh of relief that it was. It was always good to hear that he would be home, safe with her for another day.

"Okay, then," she said, sharing a look of commiseration with him. "Set it up."

"I'll do it on my way upstairs," Steve returned, scraping up one last bite of food before snapping the empty container shut. Dropping it into the garbage can nearby, he rolled his shoulders back, seemingly squaring himself up for something. "Gotta conference with Fury this afternoon."

Ah, another one of those, she chuckled inwardly. After the raids and acquisitions of new intelligence several days back, there had been a lot of back and forth between the primary, secondary, and the helicarrier teams to discuss the findings. There had been a fair amount of self-editing that Steve had done with what he told her, but she could infer that evidence of Klaue's involvement had been discovered from his confessions. The man himself was underground, as were any other additional plans that had to be scrambled before returning home, both things Fury had been incredibly vocal about. No doubt further details would be discovered once all the processing had been done and the files were shipped down, but that would be information for another time. Instead, she rose when he did, coming around her desk and going into his arms.

"Have fun with Nick," she said, planting a peck on his cheek. Pressed against him, she could feel the derisive chuckle vibrate in his chest before it came out.

"Don't get into too much trouble down here," he commanded lightly, pulling back enough to look her in the eye. His crinkled at the corners as he considered something, his fingers coming up to twitch a piece of loose hair off her forehead. Leaning closer, his voice dropped lower as he whispered, "I may just have to summon you to my office if you do."

Choking back a surprised laugh, her eyebrows arched, a single palm sliding from his waist up his chest.

"Oh, don't tempt me, Steven," she breathed, crooking her fingers around the back of his neck, drawing him down to meet his lips with hers. The embrace was over far too quickly for either of their liking, but they were both (technically) at work. She was trying to keep her head down and out of any difficulties, without making things worse with overt public displays of affection. And, even with his standing, Steve did not want to be under fire for losing his composure and getting caught necking with her. So when she pushed, gently, against his chest, he withdrew with as much grace as possible. With a wink and smirk, she pushed him again, widening the space between them. "Go on, get outta my hair."

Still, she couldn't resist a moment of cheekiness, swatting him on the backside as he went to the door. The determined and hungry look he shot over his shoulder at her all but promised retribution. Inwardly she was thrilled by it, but outwardly she just canted her head and stuck her tongue out at him, waggling a few fingers in good-bye when he finally did leave. A few voices could be heard calling out her husband's name, and she stifled her giggles with her hand, waiting as they petered off. Settling back against her desk, she crossed her arms, the smile on her face drooping as she glanced at the files waiting to be opened and sorted.

"Well, that was about all the fun I'm gonna have today," she remarked softly, pushing away and circling back to her chair. Back to work.

 **xXxXxXx**

"So, what are you two thinking?" John asked his clients after they had some time to explore the master bedroom. The tour had come to its end, and he was curious as to how the couple before him were feeling. The house he'd found, in his opinion, was a gem of a place, and though it was subdued, he could tell that the young lady was more and more excited as they went from room to room. The captain was a harder read, maintaining an even, pleasant expression, smiling indulgently whenever his wife broke the facade. Dark eyes flicked over to blue, and the fellow half-smiled at him.

"Can we have a minute?" Steve asked politely, leaning back against the dresser along the far wall.

"Of course," John assured them, hooking a thumb at the doorway before exiting the space. "I'll be downstairs when you're ready."

His footfalls were deadened by the carpeting, but once he was out of the room and the door swung shut behind him, the pair looked to one another. Excitement poured off of Holly, unrestrained.

"Steve, what do you think? This is so good," she said in a rush, keeping her voice low in case John was still within earshot. It was important to remain as neutral as possible while on the walk-through, but she couldn't contain herself. Not anymore. "So much closer to what we've wanted than the others we looked at. It's in pretty great condition, and doesn't seem to need any major work right away. It's fifteen minutes to the nearest town and to the base, so we're not too far away from work and everything."

It was true; her points were valid. The slate blue house was tucked out of the way, the dirt road leading up to it set off the main road at a distance from the other nearby properties. Though a little weathered, even Steve could read its charm in the dusky evening light.

"It's...sheltered," he said, eyes sliding to the left as he provided an important point of his own. There were two entrances into the house on the first floor, front and back, both of which could easily be monitored. The boundaries of the property blended into the woods surrounding the place, but it wasn't terribly simple to break or to stumble upon the place.

"Defendable, you mean," she retorted, catching the implication in his tone. Tipping his head to the side, a humorless smirk decorated his lips.

"If you want to get technical, yes. That is a pretty big portion of why we never considered living in-town, dear," he noted drolly. In the back of his mind, he considered what improvements could be made to upgrade the security...something he hadn't really done for the other houses they'd seen.

Her responding grin took on a slightly bitter edge. "Only if it were able to absorb the collateral. Why do I feel like New York breathes easier now that you guys don't live there? And God knows how they feel down in D.C."

"Hey, now," he cut in, the ghost of a chuckle at the back of his throat.

"Sorry. Anyway, yeah, so that, but there's other stuff, too," she murmured, ticking the remaining factors off on her fingers as she went. The number of bedrooms was good for them, maxing out at three, and the basement was finished. There was enough space down there to set it up for gym equipment or as a studio to work in. An additional office space down there could be converted into a bedroom as well, if it were needed. The maximum age of the appliances and other fixtures did not exceed five years. New paint could be applied easily to the places that needed it (one of the bedrooms was a shocking shade of yellow), but it wasn't going to be a project pit.

"Sure, it's pretty close to the top of our price range and I may have spent the last ten minutes of the tour thinking about where to put Tony's spy cameras—because yeah, that's a permanent part of our lives—and if bears are going to be squatting in the front yard. And also, taxes..." she broke off, taking a deep breath after running out of steam (and Steve had to bite his lip to stop his laughter). Shrugging, she moved to stand in front of him, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "But, well...I think it feels right. So, what do you think? You've been letting me ramble. You wouldn't just let me do that if you didn't feel the same way. You don't do that, not to me."

The last sentence was spoken with a slight twinge of hesitance, as though she thought he would actually pull a fast one on her. Pushing off of the dresser, he ran his palms up and down her arms, soothing her a bit with his ministrations.

"You're right; I don't do that. Not to you," he agreed, going silent and thinking hard for a moment. It certainly wasn't the American dream that so many people had back in his day, but he couldn't shake off the sense of familiarity he'd gotten when they'd arrived. The distant sense of home. Looking down at her, he tipped her chin up, making her look him in the eye again. "I think we better find out if the seller will accept a buyer with a VA loan. We're going to have to shake a leg if we want to get this place."

Cautious hopefulness dawned on her face, and Holly squeaked, "Really?"

"It does feel like the right place for us," he affirmed aloud. His grin grew wider and warmer as he inclined his chin. "We've got to try, at least."

"We get John?"

He nodded once more, slipping his hand down her arm until their fingers threaded together.

"Let's go get him, doll."

They had to try. This was their first real chance at a place, at an actual home for their lives. And with any luck, it would be the only chance they would have to take.

 **xXxXxXx**

"So you put in an offer, huh?" Sam remarked the next day when Steve told him about the showing. They had arrived first in the training space, equipment on and the gymnasium-sized arena littered with blocks and obstacles for the coming session. The blond man smiled, tipping his head to the side. The other man returned the mirth, holding out a fist and waiting for the captain to oblige him in the congratulatory fist bump. He did as he was prompted, even if was done halfheartedly.

"Yeah. The seller actually seems open to wanting to sell to us with our loan, or so the realtor has said," Steve informed him, the grin on his face lessening somewhat. "Not many people are lining up to do so, it turns out."

Granted, a lot of people were more wary of the VA than the people using the loans, but thanks for service was not enough for some people to take on an offer. The seller for the house, though, was of a mind to sell quickly, and the house had been on the market for awhile. Backwoods properties appealed to a certain set, and a good portion of families upstate were looking to be as close as possible to the cities. The odds were at least slightly in their favor, but Steve did not want to be mired in one of the infinite horror stories he'd stumbled upon on the Internet.

"Been there, done that, dude," Sam groused. He had lived through one of those horror stories, had been declined due to using a VA loan. It had taken hims several tries to find a house in D.C., and for a seller to accept him. That was an experience he did not care to repeat. "It can be a bitch. Sounds like a good thing, though. I'll keep my fingers crossed for you guys. With any luck, you might get accepted and move in before Christmas."

"From your mouth to God's ears," the captain professed, running a hand over his face to scrub off the sudden spring of anxiety. A low giggle cropped up behind him, and he turned to see Natasha there, kneeling down and tightening the straps on her boots. He hadn't heard her arrive, but that was hardly a shock. The woman could sneak up on practically anyone.

"First the picturesque love affair, then the whirlwind marriage, and now rounding it off with the white picket fence. How very domestic of you, Rogers," she teased him, tossing her hair as she finished with her task and stood up.

His brow furrowed at that. "I wouldn't say it's been picturesque..."

On the surface, it would seem that way, given how well they'd gotten along even since the beginning of their friendship. But it honestly wasn't; no relationship was. Holly's and his marriage did not truly meet the definition of the word. They'd had their squabbles, disagreements, full-fledged fights, just not in sight of the public. The worst they'd ever gotten into it in public were a few odd, snappish comments tossed at each other, but they otherwise kept it in check until they were behind closed doors. Those times were their business and their business only; they didn't need to be on display for others to watch and pick apart. Their lives were too public for them to indulge in that. To imply perfection where none existed rankled, and he let it show.

Natasha raised her chin, her smirk growing wider. "Damn close, though."

"What, like it's a bad thing?" Wilson cut in then, wanting to diffuse the situation that threatened to rise. Steve shot him a look then, and he physically took a step back. Spiking an eyebrow and snapping on his goggles, he grumbled, "And trust me, there is nothing picturesque about a mortgage."

"I'm not saying it's bad at all," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Her bright gaze darted to the side and back again, suddenly wary of her leader's reticence. "I'm just...you do realize that what you have, or what you're trying to have, is sort of a rarity in our line of work, right?"

Steve closed his eyes, rolling them behind the lids. Wanting to keep himself occupied, and to give him an opportunity to start leaving the conversation behind, he snatched up the helmet that was perched on a nearby box, cramming it onto his head and snapping the strap under his chin to secure it.

"I do. It was a rarity back in the day, too," he reminded her, forcing his tone to remain even. Glancing up at her speculative expression, he continued, "Which is why I'm taking the chances I can as they come."

"Very risky," she pronounced, the words edged with something darker than indifference. "Could blow up in your face."

"Or it might not," he shot back, his impatience with the whole thing bleeding through. "You don't know until you try, Romanoff."

As they'd been trading remarks, the remaining members of the team had entered the facility, their easy banter dying as they noticed the Black Widow having the animated discussion with the captain. Rhodey and Wanda had kept their mouths shut, eyes jumping back and forth between the two as if watching the volleys of a tennis match. The Vision observed as well, a quizzical expression blooming on his face. Turning to the auburn-haired woman on his left, he gestured at the two of them, contracting pupils making the electric blue of his irises to stand out.

"I sense there is more to be interpreted from the captain and the Black Widow's words than was actually said," he remarked _sotto voce_. Subtlety was a skill he was learning slowly, but he was not as adept as he wished to be. The fact that both Rogers and Romanoff threw hard glares in his direction told him so. Wanda's face blanched slightly, but instead of shrugging him off or otherwise ignoring him, she nodded.

"You're right, but—" she began, the flicker of scarlet flashing over her eyes as she soaked in the emotions practically reverberating off the others.

"Don't push it," Rhodey snapped at both of them, the face plate of his armor sliding open and his dark eyes pleading for the pair to shut up. They took the hint then, ending their observations and waiting for the captain to start giving orders. Natasha stepped back as well, a curt, flyaway gesture prompting Steve to grit his teeth and instruct JJ to take them through a few specific scenarios.

When the afternoon break came, and they had changed out of their uniforms, Steve waited for Natasha to depart from her locker space, catching her in the long, open hall before she could disappear. Matching her pace for a few moments, he finally grabbed her arm, forcing her to halt.

"What's going on?" he asked, controlling his volume in deference to the echoing chamber around them. Her face smoothed out, blankness on her features.

"Nothing," she replied, an innocent shrug of the shoulders following. As talented at deception as she was, Steve did know her well enough by that point to know she was trying to put him off.

"C'mon, Nat," he murmured, hands resting on his hips and head tipping to the side. She maintained her composed look for several long moments, but her irises seemed to waver back and forth. He could almost see the precise moment when she basically said, 'screw it' in her mind and exhaled quickly.

"Look, it's nothing against you guys at all. Seriously, I'm pleased that you've been really happy. Truly, it saved me the trouble of being your yenta," she joked, earning a slight, confused grin in response. Cupping a hand in the air, she went on, "But...it's a lot of change in a year and a half, and this is just one more thing. You sure you can handle it? And are you sure you can handle the next one that comes, because God knows it's coming?"

Steve blinked at that, eyes crinkling at the corners despite his stoic expression.

"Natasha, you're talking to a man who literally changed overnight from a scrawny shrimp to a super soldier."

She scoffed aloud. "Physical transformation. Not what I'm talking about."

"No, it wasn't just that," he corrected her sharply. So much more had happened to him than just gaining almost a foot in height and some muscle definition. It had changed his outlook on so many things in his life, changed how he thought, analyzed, viewed the world around him. At his core, he remained the same, but it was impossible to remain mentally untouched. "And between then and now, so many things have altered around me. I have adapted; it was something I had to learn at a young age, too." He had to, had to learn to hang on and endure back when he was merely fighting for his next breath, numerous conditions marking each day as the potentially last one. Breaking the hard line of his lips with an upturn at the corners, he looked at her, his friend. "I'm okay, honestly. Yeah, sometimes it's all very intimidating, but there isn't a thing about it I would do to reverse it. It's been for the good of my life, and that's certainly easier to have than the bad."

Deep down, he wondered how much she was worrying for him, and how much she seemed to be projecting from her own life. Change and change again was nothing new to her, not as far as locations and timezones, or even employment, were concerned. No, the emotional alterations were what tripped her up, and she had suffered fairly recently from one such thing. It was something she did not care for, nor did she care to admit to being a problem. She did not want it to be a problem for anyone else, not for her teammates. Not for her friends. After several long seconds, she finally cracked a grin, a true one, his reassurances accepted. Once, twice, she nodded, and he let out a slow breath.

"I hope you guys get the house," she said, holding up her hand and crossing the middle and forefinger. Lifting a shoulder, she muttered, " At the very least, Barnes will have a place to stay once he gets out of rehab."

There had been a good deal of debate between him and Holly about what to do in regards to Bucky once he was allowed to leave the Country House. For the sake of acclimating him into life as they knew it, he was going to be sheltered by them. One way or another. Holly had agreed, but she still had reservations about his control. She just did not trust him yet, and Steve had looked at it from her point of view, admitted to himself that it would take some time for her to do so. Still, he trusted Bucky, and his progress as shown through his letters and even some forwarded reports from his doctor had indicated vast improvement.

"Provided we can make a deal, and all the inspections and appraisals go alright," Steve said. Looking her square in the eye and holding it for a few seconds, he promised, "Friends are always welcome."

Her eyebrows quirked, and warmth flooded over the coldness in her face.

"Well, if Wilson or the recruits start pissing me off too much, I might have to fight James for the space, then," Natasha announced, tucking some of her fiery hair behind her ear. Noting the use of his erstwhile best friend's first name, Steve caught himself before he could say something about it. The letters exchanged between the would-be assassins was doing some good, evidently. How much good remained to be seen. Instead, he shrugged it off, focusing on a point over her head and smirking.

"Now that would be interesting to see. Just...whatever you do, do it outside," he requested politely. "I don't know if I could afford the repairs for any damage you two might inflict."

Her eyes glittered as she turned to go, and Nat snickered again. "Should've borrowed money from Stark; these are the things you need to plan ahead for, Steve."

"Right, I'm an idiot," he returned sardonically, smiling to himself as he left in the opposite direction.

* * *

 **A/N:** Man, you guys must have been busy last week. Not a whole lotta chatter from you guys about the last chapter. Hope you're all okay and stuff. :) Either way, here's the next one...a little late, as I had predicted. Still, I was glad to have the extra time off; it was great to see my family again.

This is not quite as long as the last chapter, but still got a good chunk of writing done.

Here we get a little peek into Holly's daily life at the office in the archives department. And yay, they put in an offer! And dude, I have read some pretty sucky stories in regards to acceptance for VA loans. They're out there, man.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references mentioned in the text.

Just a heads up, I am working on a little side project, another AU story involving Steve and Holly. It's still being developed, but I intend to have it out as soon as humanly possible. Keep your eyes peeled; I will let you guys know about it once I've gotten a little further with it!

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	6. Chapter 6

Three weeks. It took three weeks of appraisals, negotiation, inspections, and paperwork, but the house was theirs. The seller had accepted Steve and Holly's offer, the end of the month scheduled as their move-in date. Everything was signed, sealed, and processed, the first mortgage check written out. Even if the completion of the whole house-hunt opened onto new obstacles to traverse (such as packing up possessions and shuffling them to a new location yet again), they were relieved and pleased. They finally had a place of their own, a house to make their home. It was a good feeling.

That good feeling was one they tried to hang onto when Halloween rolled around, the Saturday being their chosen day to get the last of their belongings onto the property. With things split between three places—the new base, the Tower in Manhattan, and the storage locker Steve had been renting out in Maryland for the last three years—it was difficult to coordinate. Steve had struck out for the locker on his own a day ago, in spite of her misgivings. He was still recovering from injuries sustained in the last mission the team was on, and she would rather have him take care of himself first. Instead, he objected that he felt well enough to go, and he would be having someone come along to help, anyway. Movers were granted temporary access to the Tower, watched over by JJ and Stark as the few pieces left there were carted away and hauled upstate. Sam Wilson had promised to help transport the larger furniture from the base if Steve was not back by the early afternoon, his SUV at their disposal. The whole week, in between work and research (and still more calls with the publishing company), the smaller items were packaged up, ready to taken away.

"I am so over moving," Holly groused, dropping a box she was carrying on the floor of one of the smaller bedrooms. Her phone was tucked between her shoulder and her ear, shifting into the palm of her hand as she tapped it back to speakerphone. The guys from the moving company were hauling in things from the truck, nearly finished with the task as there had not been much taken from the Tower. She scratched her scalp, hair shifting and skewing the ponytail she had pulled it into. On the other end of the line, a dramatic sigh poured out.

"Twice in a year is kinda nuts," the bright, cheery tone of the recipient crooned, voice smoothing out. How kind of Sarah to point that out, she mused inwardly. Her best friend exhaled softly before going on. "But at least this one's permanent."

Holly closed her eyes, head tipping forward as she rested an edge of the phone along her forehead.

"Thank goodness," she muttered. After all that was done to obtain the house, she prayed it would remain that way. The conversation moved on, as the two young women were bent on catching up. Though they exchanged texts frequently, it was not the same as actually talking to one another. Sarah Collins had been busy in the months following her best friend's relocating and subsequent wedding. Some of her dance pupils were going to competition again, but she had also arranged for a few couples from her adult classes to enter in ballroom challenges. In between the training, she'd also been looking into starting her own studio, figuring out the numbers with her boyfriend's help. The easy camaraderie between the two women flowed, with Holly easily segueing into her own work woes. The publishing company had pushed her too far, and she had decided to cut her losses and retreat from them. With still no contracts signed and their refusal to take her wishes seriously, they had let her go, contact cut and leaving her twisting in the wind. The literary agent she'd hired was already at work following up on other companies she'd sent submissions to, and that was the last she'd heard. The disappointment in her voice was obvious, but she refused to be bullied into anything she truly did not wish to do. As they spoke, she had made a few trips from the garage to the house, boxes and bags unloaded and placed in their correct rooms. The movers had left after awhile, their task completed, and she was alone for a few minutes. The roar of an engine shooting up the driveway stalled her voice, cutting her off as it pealed up to the property.

"What in the actual hell?" Holly cried, running to the closest window and peering out. There, parked in the driveway close to the front door, was the new truck her husband had been after for the last month. The box was filled, the contents covered with thick tarp and secured with cords all around it. Pressing the heel of her hand to her head, she watched as Steve climbed out of the passenger side, shooting a dark look as Tony Stark coolly exited from behind the wheel. The sunglasses he had on were pushed up, a little unnecessary for the cloudy fall day, and he smirked broadly at the captain. When he tossed the keys over the hood to Steve, he muttered something. They traded remarks back and forth, their voices muffled by the barriers of insulation and glass, but she could hazard a guess that it was merely friendly sniping between them, as always. Sam's familiar Acadia rumbled up behind them, an open trailer hitched behind it and a few of the bigger pieces of furniture situated in it.

"Something wrong?" Sarah broke through, anxious about her outburst. Tapping at the sill, Holly rolled back her shoulders.

"No, just the arrival of the cavalry," she reported, a lopsided grin blooming as she spotted Steve glancing up and spotting her, his hand waving for her to come down. Extending a finger in the one-minute gesture, she told Sarah, "I gotta get down there, start hauling in the big stuff."

"Okay. Let me know if you survive, alright?" the petite blonde asked, tutting at something on her end. "I'll need to start looking for a new matron of honor as soon as possible, otherwise."

"Fine." The words registered with Holly, then, and pulled her up short. "Hold on, did you just—"

Her phone blipped then, alerting her to a text message that had just come in. It was from Aaron's phone, their numbers having been exchanged months ago. Tapping at her screen, she opened it to reveal the picture sent: a band with a small diamond nestled on her friend's hand. No doubt, he'd sent it at his now-fiancee's bidding, just to prove the truth of what wasn't directly said.

Jaw dropping, she spluttered into the phone, "Sarah! Holy crap!"

A resounding, excited laugh floated out of the other girl's mouth. "I've been sitting on it for a couple days, but I couldn't take it anymore."

"That's awesome!" The burst of happiness in her chest made Holly pause on the stairs, sitting down on the top step and pouring out congratulations. "Details?"

"Details later, I promise," Sarah responded, making her groan loudly. A shuffle crackled over the line, and the other woman hurriedly said, "I've gotta run myself. Hit me up later, okay?"

"Of course! Holy balls..."

As she signed off, Holly was still somewhat reeling from the news. Her best friend had gotten engaged...Sarah was going to get married. Processing it for a few moments, she eventually got to her feet, beaming broadly when she finally got to the front door and made her way outside. Off her husband's inquisitive glance, she shared the news with him, and he let out a low whistle. Her excitement continued to bubble below the surface as she belatedly greeted Tony and Sam, thanking them for coming out to help. Brushing it off, Stark beckoned for her to take a look at the new toy Steve had gotten. Rolling his eyes, Steve's gaze lingered fondly on the cab of the black Dodge before he tripped to the back, unwrapping the tarp with Sam's aid. Once she was situated behind the wheel, Tony leaned in, pointing out the upgrades and the features of the vehicle to her. Four-wheel drive, installed seat heaters, defroster on the back window, satellite radio...it was quite a bit to take in. However, she noticed a few things that were by no means standard with any truck she'd ever been in before: veil shielding that could be deployed from the wheel, high definition display set-ups that were connected to project onto the windshield, voice command receptors and access to databases via JJ and the Oracle grid. There even were harnesses hooked up behind the front and passenger seats for the vibranium shield to be stored (where it was still sitting, waiting to be retrieved).

"Well, that explains why it took so long for it to get up here," she said, climbing out of the cab and jogging up to the porch. The truck had actually been purchased roughly a week ago, but it had not made its way upstate until then. Stark pulled a messenger bag out of the back seat, motioning for Sam to go with him to examine the lines of the property, the fallen leaves crunching under their feet. His main purpose would be to help set up the security accouterments, getting the house connected to the programs and protocols set up on the base and at the Tower before the day was out. Moving in the furniture could wait for a few minutes. Steve rested his hip against the balustrade, running his eyes over the truck with satisfaction as he set down the load of boxes he'd brought up with him.

"When he picked it up for me, he insisted on making some adjustments," the captain told her, nodding in the direction Tony had gone. The billionaire had actually wished to hold onto the vehicle longer, to upgrade it even further, but Steve had declined. At that rate, he'd never get the truck back, and it was needed.

"And how much did that cost?" she wondered, crossing her arms and cutting a glance at him.

"Other than the cash I offered...wearing whatever costume he chooses for the party tonight," he confessed meekly, hands going into his pockets. Holly's eyebrows rose a fraction. Giving Tony free reign with his personage at a public event. The agents at the base were going to have a field day with it once he showed up at the company party in whatever Stark chose to inflict on him.

"Oh, good. So your pride, then."

He inclined an eyebrow at her. "That implies that I had any to begin with."

She fixed a stare at him, a sardonic chuckle slipping out of her mouth.

"Please." She observed as he lifted a shoulder, bending a little to brace himself along the railing of the front porch. As his gaze focused on something she could not see, she continued, "You're praying for another mission right now, aren't you?"

He snorted, looking at her out the corner of his eye. "You have no idea, sweetheart."

"Maybe it won't be so bad..." she trailed off when he simply shot her another look. She knew Tony better than that by now. Sighing quietly, she reached up, attempting to fix the stray strands of his blond hair (due for a trim, although she was trying her hardest to talk him into growing it out and adopting his old hairstyle again. Without much success, but she still tried). Aloud, she muttered, "You've already done quite a bit this week."

To her mind, that was definitely true. The team had gone to engage with a group of arms dealers with close ties to Klaue, hoping that shaking them down would reveal information regarding him or his current location. The round-up quickly devolved into a brawl, leaving several members of the team bloodied up and bruised. Steve had come back with a nasty black eye, cuts all over his jaw and mouth, and he'd been hit hard enough to actually strain a couple ribs. When asked, he mumbled something about a truck and high walls, hissing sharply as the nurse in the infirmary wrapped his torso. Holly frowned at that, her stomach quaking at seeing him in real pain. Injuries were almost always a given whenever they returned, but Steve rarely came away with that much (the shield continued to serve its purpose, whenever he wasn't flinging it at someone). The next few days were meant for them to take it easy, but no matter the extent of the trauma, they were still charging ahead. Moving, it seemed, was actually considered light work, as far as he was concerned.

A corner of his mouth twisted up, the split in his lip no longer marring it. "Well, we'll see, won't we?"

With a grunt and a muted wince, he gathered up his boxes again, her eyes following him as he went inside. Rubbing her fingers against her temples, she grumbled to herself as she went in to help.

About a half hour later, Tony and Sam returned, sensors placed at key points along the edges of the property. Parting ways, the billionaire went indoors, taking the bag of micro-cameras and sensors that he'd once installed in Holly's apartment in D.C. from her and starting the hook-up in the house. In between the others shoving in boxes or rearranging furniture, he would call for assistance, one of the other three usually helping brace while he wedged the tech either in a high corner or along a windowsill. Taking Steve's tablet, he plunked himself down on the couch in the living room, consulting his own handheld and chattering with his AI as he completed connecting and testing. During the last legs of the installation, he called over to the captain, crooking his finger at him and imploring him to check out the set-up. The digital grid of the house sprang up via a specially-made application, and he carefully went through the accessibility and the channel for each camera, live feed picking up. Jokingly, he waved at the one in the far corner of the room, and Steve snickered as he watched it show up on the screen. Passing him the tablet, he allowed him to get a feel for the application, allowing his dark gaze to dart around the space. The house was nice, a little kitschy for his tastes. Then again, he was very much about streamlined, modern touches and finishes, so it wasn't surprising that it didn't exactly conform to his preferences. The furniture brought was pretty much dumped where there was room for it, very few boxes opened and ready to be unpacked. The living room was almost the only space that looked near completion. The record player along the inner wall needed to be scooted over a bit, and the couch was at an odd angle, but the television and its stand were situated. As well as that...

"Good Lord, that is a lot of books," Stark murmured as he stared at the bookcases. They were tall and broad, framing the television stand and packed from top to bottom. Blinking, he hooked a thumb forward, raising an eyebrow at his friend. "You gotta get with the times, Rogers. Watch some Netflix or something."

"Actually, those are all Holly's," Steve informed him, his voice infused with warmth. Even when at her busiest, she still consumed books with a passion, which was something he appreciated. Classics were interspersed with modern fiction, mysteries by science fiction, historical fiction shoved up by fantasy. Even a few textbooks from her college days were mixed in as well. There would be no lack of reading material in their house. Screwing up his brow, he continued, "Well, about ninety percent of them are hers. That one shelf there is mine."

He jabbed a finger at the right case, the top shelf. It had saddened him to know that out of all the things the historical society had saved from his life, his books had not been part of the acquisitions. That was a shame; they had been some of his closest companions in his childhood, taking him out of his mind and away from whatever ailment or crummy cold he was afflicted with at the time. Collecting anew, he managed to scrounge up copies of his old favorites, along with the few new biographies he'd acquired over the past couple of years. Those and a few art books were squeezed into the space of the shelf, some of them well-thumbed already. Leaning forward, he deposited his tablet on the askew coffee table, carding a hand through his hair.

"And for the record, I do have a Netflix subscription."

"Yeah, and the whole queue is filled with documentaries and _I Love Lucy,_ " Holly spouted from the steps, adjusting her hands as she and Sam steered the box spring up the staircase towards the bedroom. Spying this, Steve discreetly rose from his seat.

"Hey, you watch them, too," he remonstrated in good humor, vaulting over the back of the couch to take her place. As he and Sam pushed the box spring up the steps, Holly blew out a breath, shaking her head. Catching Tony's eye, she tipped her head towards the door, tacitly asking for his assistance. Sighing heavily, he complied, going out and helping her haul in the mattress next.

"So where's the bed frame, by the way?" Sam wondered when she and Tony brought it in, flopping it atop the box spring. It was curious; when they'd started loading the furniture back at the base, he noticed that that certain piece had been missing.

"Ordered and on its way out," she told him without missing a beat, wiping the sweat off her brow. It was too bad; that frame had been with her since she'd moved into her apartment in D.C., headboard and all. At least there was money to work with after negotiating the price down with the seller so they could buy a new one. Placing her hands on her hips, she reported, "It should be delivered in the next few days, give or take."

"What happened to the old one?" Tony asked, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel overshirt and watching their reactions covertly. The couple shared a glance, bright blue connecting with gleaming brown before Holly coughed.

"It's, um, broken." Off the ring of surprised looks around them, she hastened to add, "To be fair, it broke when Steve fell back onto it going to sleep."

On top of being hurt, that was just another sharp hand they were dealt in the last week, and Steve had let out an inventive stream of curses when the thing had snapped under his weight. All in French, of course, so she wasn't actually sure he was cursing, but she'd heard a " _merde_ " dropped once or twice, and she thought she'd gotten the gist of it.

Sam arched an eyebrow, flicking his fingers at them. "But I'm sure the pair of you didn't help the matter along or anything."

Color flared into their faces, and Steve's jaw set tightly. A sharp inhalation from Tony's direction drew his ire-filled glance, and the billionaire immediately looked up at the ceiling.

"...No comment," the captain said, turning swiftly and propelling a laughing Stark out of the room with a palm firmly placed between his shoulder blades. Holly grinned weakly, pivoting on her heel and striding over to the bag with the bedspread bundled into it, determined to make the mattress ready for use that night.

"Your mother would be so pleased," Wilson teased, laughing as he watched Holly's face flush a deeper red and walking out of the room before she chose to retaliate.

 **xXxXxXx**

"When's Hawley coming?" Tony asked, choosing to get down to business right then. He had returned to the base with Steve after the last of the possessions were moved into the house. Sam and Holly would be coming in later, after they prepared for the party themselves. The sun had drooped low in the sky, night rushing in upon them. They needed to get back to oversee the set-up for the base's Halloween bash and to also take a look at the cordoned wing that was to be his. As his probationary period had ended, he was still unsure about whether or not he would resume his place on the team. Still, Stark had more than earned a right to the space, given that the base was leased out from him. There was a good, open bank that could be converted into a laboratory, and it could also accommodate suit storage. He just needed to check out the specs.

"A couple weeks or so," Steve told him, matching his stride as they tromped through the garage to the elevator bank at the back. Their U.N. representative had called in just before their last mission, expressing the need for her to make the trip over. "She wants to do an evaluation, inform the U.N. of any needs that we might have. She's starting here, and then she'll move onto London to check on the progress of the other base."

"Seems a little backwards," the billionaire mused aloud. Arching an eyebrow, he wondered, "Is she coming alone?"

The captain's eyes flicked away for a second, attention paid to the doors of the elevator sweeping open. Getting on, he waited for Tony to board with him, jabbing the button for the correct floor before answering.

"I've been told that...well, she's said that some others would be interested," Steve owned up, crossing his arms and a grimace surfacing. "One of them is very adamant about attending, and it's becoming too difficult to avoid now. If we don't accommodate him, it could get very ugly, very fast."

Tony scoffed audibly, tapping at his handheld for a few seconds and readjusting the strap of his travel duffel on his shoulder.

"Despite your attempt at tact, I have an idea of exactly whom you're referring to." Brown eyes flashed, a dark and hard edge coming in. "And you're right; he could make things very uncomfortable for everyone if he's not appeased in some way."

Steve's expression flattened out, and his lips thinned. "Believe me, I'm more and more grateful each day for the fact that he has no say in operations here."

"Thank God for Hawley and Hill."

"Oh, I do," he replied, absolute honesty surfacing. Exhaling sharply, he moved to rest his hands on his belt buckle, and he glanced at Stark warily. "Do you think you could be here for it, Tony? You might be a good deterrent for any...extras that come around."

"Please, stop flattering me, Rogers," he retorted sardonically, the elevator coming to a halt and the doors sliding open. Carefully, the duo picked their way across the floor, heading straight for the guest quarters that were set up for visitors. "Yeah, I can swing back up here. Pretty sure heading off the good General Ross outweighs a golf date with a CFO."

The rapid swivel of the captain's head nearly made him laugh in his face. "You golf?"

"It was the lesser of two evils, trust me," Stark grumbled, using his designated access code at the door of the quarters when they'd arrived. Stepping into the compact space, he gave it a cursory glance as he let Steve ponder his statement. It was almost untouched from when he'd made his first inspection months ago: the kitchenette was tidy, opening up onto a wide living space. It was a glorified studio, really, but it wasn't meant for long-term living. Crossing the room, he tossed his bag onto the bed, the dark red comforter muffling the drop. Running a hand through his close-cropped hair, he tsked under his breath and shot a look at Steve before speaking his mind once more. "He might try to make demands, regardless. I don't think he'd be above pulling rank, if he had to."

The captain's spine stiffened, clenching his jaw as stoicism set upon his face. The blue of his eyes turned icy as he considered Tony's words. Much of what he'd heard about General Ross had indicated that his friend's suppositions were on the mark, and that did not sit well with him in the least. The man would be determined to find fault, and equally as determined to push his way into the organization, despite having no real authority with either them or the United Nations.

"He has no one to pull it over up here," he pronounced carefully, the storm in his gaze intensifying. His tone, however, remained low and even. "I'd like to see him try."

A long moment of silence passed, each man ruminating over the posited situation and considering how future events could transpire. It would be best for him to be up there for the visit, Tony concluded. He'd dealt with Ross before; he would most likely have the best chance of keeping the fellow in line. Shaking off the shiver that had just run down his spine, he turned his attention onto his bag, taking it in hand again.

"Speaking of trying..." Tony trailed off, unzipping his duffel and removing a couple packages. The clear costume bags held two distinctly different outfits. Tapping his finger along the side of one, he politely inquired, "Which one would you like to try your luck on?"

Eyeing up the offerings, Steve's face crumpled into mild distaste. "Neither, if I'm being honest."

"Hey, I retrofitted that monster you have parked in the garage," the billionaire asserted, jabbing a finger at him. "You owe me."

"I did pay you," the captain pointed out. Money had been passed between them, but he even he knew that Stark had knocked down the price. He just wished the windfall could be made up in another way.

"True, but I prefer the blackmail potential this has," Tony told him outright, amusement lighting up his face. "I could've been cruel, you know. Made you struggle with a pair of tights. Though I suppose you would be an expert at those by now."

A smirk reflected back at the deep frown, glimmers of humor in their eyes as they stared one another down for a few moments. Tearing his gaze away, Steve glanced back and forth between the two options presented, sighing deeply.

"...Then, this one, I guess," he said, selecting the one on the right, nudging away the accessories for the costume off to one side. It was something of a cliché for him to choose that particular outfit, but it would at least be bearable. And at least moderately appropriate.

"Ah, ah," the billionaire reprimanded him, pushing the additional bagged items back at him. "Beard, too, or no deal."

The captain scrubbed a hand over his brow, barely suppressing a wince. "You know, you were talking about the lesser of two evils before. I think this more adequately fits the description."

 **xXxXxXx**

Whoever claimed that organizations like SHIELD or the offices of the Avengers were stolid, stuffy, and boring had clearly never gone to one of their designated company parties. The reputation they had carried certainly made one think that the people involved had to be humorless and stiff, but it was far from the truth. Holidays were among the few things that allowed the agents and other staff to actually let loose and be who they truly were at their cores. Consequently, when they took the time to celebrate, they celebrated. Hard. After all, it could very well be their last party (for some of them); living it up was an absolute requirement. The connection to Tony Stark just made it all the more impressive and exciting, as he was directly funding the parties that year.

The open-air front lobby was swathed from top to bottom in decorations, fake webbing and ghosts dotting the walls, and an honest-to-God pumpkin patch in the far corner. Lights flashed and shined, reflected on the disco ball strung up in the rafters. A top-notch bar flanked the east wall, the DJ setting up his booth along the west. Of course, staff would still be on-duty, but the trade-off kept the flow thriving and jumping. Attendance was not mandatory, but if one was employed at the base, one could not possibly think of an excuse to miss out.

The costume parade was definitely not something that could be overlooked. Some people did find it amusing to dress up as the "top brass," so to speak, but many of the employees and interns had engaged their homemade ingenuity to assemble their ensembles. From the cheap and cheesy to the downright astounding, the mix was incredible. And, depending on the viewpoint, cringe-worthy.

"This must be a proud moment for you," the blue-haired pixie crowed to the sexy (though she argued the term) baseball player, passing one of the cups she'd retrieved from the bar to her. Kay's black eyes cut to the right, darting over the sea of party-goers to the object of their attention. A hard snort flew out of her companion, and she had to smother a giggle.

"Oh, it is," Holly remarked sarcastically, leaning back against the wall and taking a healthy swallow of her drink. Her gaze followed along with Kay's, watching as the captain made his way across the room, poked and prodded in the back by Tony. Or, more to the point, Sherlock Holmes—deerstalker, pipe, and all—was pushing him around. They'd been flagged down and accosted by the billionaire almost from the second they stepped into the room, and he'd spirited her husband away before she could get a word in edgewise. Steve tried to reach out, bring her along, but he was swept away, and now she could only watch from the claimed position by the wall as he was shoved to and fro. The red and white striped trousers caught around his legs, the blue jacket was ill-fitting and the beard and top hat were lopsided. However, that had not prevented him from actively owning the damn thing as he moved, false confidence buoying him. She huffed out a breath and shook her head. "I'm so glad that the old Uncle Sam jokes can get revived due to this. Because we haven't heard those in awhile."

Kay outright scoffed at that, adjusting the top of her costume discreetly. "Hey, you married him."

"That I did," Holly replied immediately, fixing the bill of her new ball cap so it would sit properly, even when on backwards. "He was given a choice, and frankly, I don't blame him for making this one; Tony does like to try and embarrass the hell out of him, if he can. I mean, _I_ would've quite liked the second choice, but, well...not for here."

Meaningful glances passed between the two women, one arching her eyebrow and the other grinning suggestively before dissolving into laughter. Before Kay could inquire about what the second choice of costume was, Holly jerked her chin out, gesturing out to another section of the crowd.

"Meanwhile, looks like Zorro's got his eye on you."

The other young woman followed her gaze, sizing up the fellow swathed in black, plastic sword on his hip and a grin that threatened to grow larger now that he was being noticed. Holly wasn't sure who he was, most likely one of the lab rats, if she had to guess, but she was interested in Kay's reaction. As far as she knew, her friend's affair ("Oh, geez, that makes it sound _so_ classy when you put it that way," was the sniped response when she termed it thusly weeks ago) with the winged Avenger was still going strong. However, when the two women spoke, they generally tried not to allude to it in respect to the agent's wishes. To say she was curious about where things stood was an understatement, but she had bitten her tongue on the subject. However, she wasn't above prompting about other people taking notice and using it as a gauge.

The answer became fairly obvious when Kay did nothing more than flick her gaze over the guy, a hand dabbing at the glittering pattern dotting across her temples and cheeks.

"I don't know," she murmured, turning her head slightly to the right and eyeing up another person across the room. "Kinda digging the guy in the _Top Gun_ jacket."

In spite of knowing whom she was referring to, Holly still glanced over to the person in question. Sam had his hands tucked into the pockets, aviator sunglasses perched on his nose and his own dog tags chained around his neck. He was trying to maintain a conversation with the masked vampire (Rhodey, who was poking at the brown bomber jacket disparagingly) but his posture unmistakably kept opening up in Kay's direction. Well, it was unmistakable to those who were looking for it. Cutting her eyes back and forth, she barely caught the three taps her friend made when she brought her hand up to her shoulder. When her head tilted slightly to the side, she narrowed her gaze at the brightly-attired woman, missing Sam's careful exit. After a few moments, she understood what had just happened, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. If Sarah had been there, she would've been on Kay for further gossip so fast; the mental image flew through her mind so quickly, she barely managed to stop from crowing outright.

"Oh, that's...so subtle," Holly mumbled into her cup instead, her companion huffing and scratching the corner of her eye pointedly with her middle finger. Glimpsing it, she laughed out loud and bumped her shoulder with her own, causing her to giggle, too. Taking a step or two back, Kay's face was creased in question, a shoulder shrugging. Realizing that she was wondering if she should stay or go, Holly flapped her free hand in dismissal. She would be fine on her own; she was literally in a room full of people dedicated to the causes of security and safety, and everyone had to go through scans just to be let into the building.

"Scram. Have fun," she bade her, Kay squeezing her shoulder in thanks before she darted off into the crowd. She waited until the flicker of blue hair vanished from sight, and she snickered to herself before taking another gulp of her beverage. Alone for the moment in a crowd...she was okay with that.

"Sometimes it's hard to believe she's an agent, albeit a search-and-rescue one. A neon sign is less obvious at times."

Holly jumped at the new voice to her left, choking on the swallow she'd taken of her drink. Coughing and pounding her own chest, she glared up as she tried to catch her breath. The new arrival patted her back lightly in sympathy. Once she was breathing properly again, Natasha merely smirked, smoothing down the material of her low-cut black gown, her wig of long, dark hair falling around her. Calming herself, Holly registered the implication beneath the tone of the other woman's words, and stared at her.

"How long have you known?" she wondered, incredulous. Kay hadn't told anyone else about her thing with Sam, and she definitely hadn't heard him breathe a word about it. Natasha's bright eyes glimmered in the flashing lights, her smirk taking on a smug air.

"Since June 20th," she confessed, sidestepping into a flare of light. It illuminated her perfectly, as if she had planned it earlier. Holly gaped at her, both due to the unfairness of the Black Widow's touched beauty and for the statement she'd made. Cupping a hand in the air (and lifting her trailing sleeve further away from the floor), she chuckled, "Isn't that cute, sharing an anniversary with them?"

"Shut up, Morticia," Holly retorted out the side of her mouth, adjusting the fitting ball jersey as nonchalantly as possible. Glancing in the direction her friend had gone, she frowned slightly, concern washing over her features. "It's, it's not supposed to be public knowledge."

The female Avenger shrugged, languidly leaning an arm against the wall and sighing.

"Maybe not, but the way they're going, it's not going to be a secret for much longer." She shot Holly a significant glance, waiting until she nodded comprehension. It was a warning to be delivered as was seen fit. If that pair wanted to maintain their privacy, they were going to have to take better care than they were. Even so, Nat's smiled stretched wider, and she flicked a few fingers in a flyaway gesture. "I'm half-tempted to go find them and tease them about the beautiful, blue-haired babies they'd have."

"Oh, that's evil," Holly said, the concern melting into a form of sinister humor. "I'd pay to see that, but maybe under different circumstances."

"I'll just keep it in my back pocket for another time, then."

The younger woman canted her head at that. "Got any more room in those back pockets for another secret?"

"Infinite storage space, trust me," Natasha laughed, giving her own bottom a firm pat. Waggling her hand in farewell, she turned away, weaving back into the crowd seamlessly towards the bar. The other woman just leaned back against the wall, darting looks at her neighbors and wondering if the grist in the gossip mill had just received a boost. For the most part, she was ignored, and for that she was grateful. Though she hadn't hidden her face, being in costume provide a shaky anonymity. Less people stared or intruded on her space; only when Steve powered through the crowds to find her did people seem to realize she was there. Once found, Holly stayed near at hand, tugging him out to dance once in awhile. Mostly, that involved him holding onto her hips, face reddening as she reminded him how much the activity had altered over time. More often, they were off to one side, chatting with whichever one of his friends circled by. At one point, the Vision had paused by her side, twitching at the sleeves of his sweater and looking uncomfortable. Though she did not often speak with the android, she did try to be polite, asking him if he was enjoying himself. Hesitance colored his words, as he was still treading on unfamiliar ground, but he could not say he was having a bad time. He seemed at a loss...until Wanda wandered by, playing up her witch persona by dressing up as one. It almost seemed as though he lit up around her, cautious happiness in his form as she approached. Holly's dark eyes took this in, but she said nothing about it. Rather, the three cobbled together some form of conversation as the lights an music swirled around them.

Nearly three hours into the revelry, she and Steve had found a bench to collapse onto, their own conversation lapsing into companionable silence. Her back pressed against the wall behind her, and she inhaled deeply.

"You doing alright?" he wondered, arm curling around her waist and focus directed to her.

"Yeah, I'm good," she said, nestling closer to his side. "Sort of tired."

The point was punctuated by the yawn she couldn't quite quell, covered by the back of her hand. The busy day had changed into a high-intensity night. She couldn't help it; she was slowing down. His grip around her waist tightened a little, and he tutted under his breath.

"Want to go home?" he asked her, the politeness barely covering the hope in his eyes. A little grin formed as she thought about it, thought about how they finally had a place of their own to go to. Away from the noise, the insanity. Just for them.

"...Yes," she replied, taking his hand and leading the way out of the teeming party. The density of the crowed thinned significantly by the time they'd entered one of the back halls, past some of the lingering agents and office workers as they regrouped and separated. Someone cracked a joke about Uncle Sam being taken out to the ball game, but they ignored it. The base's garage was practically empty, which they took advantage of. Standing guard, Holly watched out for any passersby as Steve started changing out of the costume, desperate to get it off and put on the regular clothes he'd stashed under the truck's back seat. Shielded as he was by the opened doors, she still kept an eye open for anybody chancing their way into the space. Once he'd finished, he called out to her, waiting until she swung herself into the cab and buckled up before starting the engine. Minutes later, they broke free of the garage, the Uncle Sam costume shoved out of sight as they motored away.

"I take it Tony was satisfied with your appearance?" asked Holly as they turned off the frontage road on the main track. A muted groan echoed in his throat, and she covered her unbidden smile with her hand.

"After taking all those pictures with me with the interns, yes," he grumbled, glancing at her out the corner of his eye. Tugging at the collar of his white henley shirt, he went on, "Distracting him with the fifth of scotch got him off it, finally. And then Pepper, of course."

Ah, Pepper Potts. She could always be counted on to wrangle in her significant other in ways that no other human seemed to possess. Even when she was a long distance away, checking in on him and pulling his attention onto her long enough for Steve to make his escape. What a lovely woman. The captain owed her a thank-you card, at minimum.

"Mm," was Holly's response, her gaze focusing out the window for a few seconds. Slowly, she turned it back to him, examining his form as he drove. One hand on the wheel, the other on the middle console. The shiner on his eye was nearly gone, the scrapes along his jaw almost fully healed, the cut on his mouth healed. The bruises hidden under his shirt, along his ribs, no longer pained him. It was almost like the events a few days ago had never occurred. Biting her own lip, she considered voicing her concerns, finally just urging herself to get on with it. "How are you feeling?"

Another sidelong glance, and his head tilted a mite in her direction. "Fine, all things considered. Why?"

"Just...just worried, that's all. You came back from the last one pretty banged up, and well, we've been running around so much since then..." she paused, unsure that she should continue. His eyes had flicked down briefly, fastening on the road again as he quirked his jaw. Her fingers curled in her lap, her leg bouncing a little as she thought. In public, she had to maintain an outward appearance at calm whenever the team was neck deep in trouble, and sometimes she had to carry that appearance home with her. Right now, though, she couldn't help herself. It was his life, had been since before they'd ever met, and she respected his choice of occupation, his sense of duty. She knew the risks and the danger, and she knew she had the courage to face it all. But sometimes, it was hard to have courage, hard to act strong. It felt like pretending, and she didn't like that. Examining her hands, she nearly whispered, "I just don't want you to think—"

Abruptly, Steve flicked the turn signal, pulling over to the side of the road for the benefit of whomever would be driving behind them at that hour. The truck ground to a slow halt, and he threw it into park with alacrity. Brow furrowing, Holly attempted to say something—a continuation of her sentence, a question as to why they'd stopped—but nothing came out. Meanwhile, Steve unclasped the belt while thumbing the hazards button. Flipping up the middle console, he scooted over a little into the freed space. Pressing down to release her belt, he barely gave her enough time to shrug it off before he was gathering her up in his arms, face pressing into the crook of her neck. Taken aback, she wound her arms around him, eyes closing against the upsurge of emotion that was catching her. She felt stupid and silly for bringing it up, but she wanted him to know that, even if they weren't talking about it, she still worried for him. As she was lamenting over the fact that she couldn't keep her mouth shut, he pulled back to look at her. Sincerity lit up his irises, and he cupped her chin, the thumb stroking along her skin.

"Hey. I'm okay." It was what he'd told her when he'd finished being treated two days ago, and it was truer at that moment than previously. Previously, he'd said it to stem an onslaught of her fear, the fear that would never go away for as long as he continued his work. The fear that she had tried so hard to keep in check for his sake. Now, he was saying it because it was simply the truth. He waited for her nod of understanding, tipping forward and capturing her lips with his. She responded eagerly, glad to accept his embrace. Breaking away to catch his breath, he felt the corner of his mouth turn up. "My lip's at least all healed up. That's gotta count for something."

A full smile broke as she snickered at that. Leaning forward and bussing her once more, he moved back over to his seat, eyes searching hers.

"Good?" he asked, wondering if his reassurance had helped.

Nodding, she answered slowly, "Good."

That said, he canted his head, buckling up again. As she strapped back in as well, he tapped off the hazards and put the truck back into drive, propelling them onto the road to take them to the house. When she flipped the middle console down again, he promptly laid his hand across it, wiggling his fingers at her. Snorting, she grinned and complied, palm resting in his then. Halfway through the drive, Holly nodded off, and so she was unaware of Steve eventually negotiating the turn for the driveway. The house was a looming shadow, the trees stirring in the breeze and rustling softly as they drove up. Pulling quietly into the garage next to her car, he leaned back against his seat for a few seconds, listening as the engine ticked and pinged. A long sigh poured out of him, but he did not linger there. Climbing out, he made his way around to her side, opening her door as lightly as he could.

"Home, Holl," he said, trying to rouse her. He savored the taste of the word on his tongue. Home. Theirs. He crooked his wrist along the top of the open door, watching as she mumbled something and adjusted her head against the back rest. "You can't sleep in the truck."

More mumbles, more shifting, but she otherwise kept her eyes shut. Exhaling carefully out his nose, he rolled his eyes heavenward and tapped his fingers impatiently along the top crest.

"I'm not gonna carry you in."

One eye flew open, and then it narrowed at him. "Thought you were a gentleman."

A half-grin came to his lips, pleased to have caught her out. "I did open the door for you."

"Okay, fine," she conceded, taking the hand he proffered then and levying herself out of the seat. It really wasn't terribly late, but it had been a long day. Steve's palm came to rest on the small of her back as they made their way out of the garage, doors locked as they went. Clambering up the back steps, he hastily punched in the codes, deactivating the security systems long enough to allow them inside and out of the cold wind. Padding into the kitchen, he asked Holly to wait there, quickly performing a check of the basement to ensure that no intruders had broken in. No matter that JJ's presence and abilities should have been enough of a deterrent; he still had to look. She rested against the table, casting a sour glance around her at the myriad of boxes taking up the space. They hadn't gotten nearly enough done that day, and it irked her. Under her breath, she muttered, "Lot of unpacking to do."

"In the morning," Steve assured her, coming in from the hallway. His checks were completed, and evidently the house was safe. Meeting her wan grin with a rueful one, he reached out to her, waiting until she came forward and threaded her fingers through his. "Upstairs, c'mon."

Treading slowly, they walked past the half-finished living room, rounding the corner and climbing the stairs. Proceeding past the bare front rooms (making sure she wouldn't see them and get disheartened by the lack of progress) they stumbled into their new bedroom. The room would also have to undergo a new set-up, but they had agreed that merely having the bed ready for them was enough for the night. Phones were turned off and plugged into chargers, resting on the dresser pressed into a corner. Silently, they went through their nightly routine, with Holly changing into a tank top and sleep shorts while Steve brushed his teeth. Joining him later at the double vanity, she playfully flicked a few droplets of water at him, giggling a little when he retaliated. Exiting, he left her to finish up and made one final check of the house, accessing the security grid with his tablet. Nothing, just silence and stillness around the property. Letting out a slow breath, he put the tablet down when she came out, face devoid of make-up and her hair loosened. Grinning softly at her, he toed off his boots and socks, letting her switch from the overhead light to the lamps by the bed.

"Won't have to worry about breaking the bed getting into it tonight," she breathed, kneeling down the mattress and box spring set on the floor. The effect of it sitting below the level of the bedside tables was comical, and he nearly laughed aloud at the image. Shaking his head, he removed the jeans he was still wearing, deciding to forgo sleep pants for that night.

"True," he mumbled, dropping down to join her. Draping the sheets over his lap, he paused, scratching the back of his neck. "The new frame's, um, reinforced, right?"

Holly shot him a look before giving her pillow a forceful thump. "Damn right it is. I'm not planning on replacing it again anytime soon."

He dipped his chin at that, leaning over to give her a good-night kiss before reaching up and turning off the lamp. Laying on his back, Steve crooked one arm behind his head, steady breaths making his chest rise and fall as he stared up at the darkness. The minutes ticked by as his mind churned over the events of the day, unable to rest. Two weeks wasn't a very long time, and there would be so much to do to get everything ready for Hawley's visit. Not to mention having to prepare for the general's likely accompaniment, and what he would attempt to inflict upon the team. Hill would likely have the base locked down in preparations, but he was more concerned about the team. Work would have to start as soon as possible, to prove their continued competency and relevance in the world. There was also nearly the whole house to unpack, and Tony would be staying over at the base to install the remainder of his wing for the new suits, and Fury had mentioned heading up a review for Bucky in the next few days—

"I can hear you brooding all the way over here," Holly piped up suddenly in the darkness, the covers shifting as she pulled them tighter around her. Of course she wasn't asleep yet. Of course she knew that his mind was burdened. Again. As always. Though he could not see her expression, mired in the night and turned away as she was, he could well imagine the concern lacing it, peeking through her tiredness. Breathing out a sigh, her tone gentled when she spoke up again. "Worry about it in the morning."

A snort flew out of him, his hands scrubbing at his face.

"Not that easy, doll," he informed her, an eyebrow spiking as his arms fell to his sides. Useless, to tell him to not worry. Ironic, considering that she was far and away the worst worrywart in the relationship. Still, it was well-meant, and he knew it. For her part, she scoffed back at him.

"Try, sweetie," she implored, rocking the bed slightly as she attempted to get comfortable. His head turned toward her then, squinting to make out her form in the blackness. It was difficult to shut off, but...well, there were ways. Moments of peace were not simple to come by in his life, but he had to say, a lot of them seemed to involve Holly in some way, shape or form. In the last year and a half, at least. Turning onto his side, he lifted up the bedclothes, shuffling over until he was directly behind her. Propping himself up on an elbow, he considered one of those ways as he peered down at her, faintly able to see the outline of her profile. Her very enticing profile.

"Well, I could try _something_..." he said, running a finger gently over her arm as he emphasized the last word. Sliding up to the strap of her tank top, he toyed with for a second or two before pulling it down. Bending closer, his breath fanned over her as his hand ducked below the covers, coming to rest on her hip. As he started tracing lazy circles around it, she exhaled sharply, a snicker barely cut off. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out what he was doing, but it was amusing how he acted coy about it. Rolling her eyes, she couldn't help the brief smile that rose at his ministrations. Still, it was the end of a long day, with the promise of the next being just as filled. She had to be firm, and she fixed her mind towards that goal.

"Something's tired. Something needs to sleep, and so do you," she retorted in what he was sure was supposed to be an imperious tone, but the slight waver in it could not be missed. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes, the firmness she vowed to maintain slipping away as he pressed against her.

"It would help me get to sleep. After," he murmured, the innocence in his voice at odds with the smirk that was threatening to bloom. The muted chuckle in her throat prompted him further. Tenderly, he planted a kiss to her bare shoulder, his hand sliding from her waist down and over her stomach. In truth, all she had to do was say the word, and he would stop, but given the way she circled her hips and pressed back into him, he concluded that she was at least willing to take things further. "Could make me downright exhausted."

"You don't give up, do you?" she sighed, humming as he trailed a line of kisses up to her neck. Warmth pooled low, heating them both. Turning her head up, she accepted the slide of his lips over hers, opening up to him when his tongue brushed at the seam.

"It's not what I'm known for, generally," he responded genially when they parted, smiling against her skin and nuzzling at the curve of her jaw. A giggle freely floated out of her, which he attributed to him ghosting his mouth over the sensitive spot below her ear, but he was proven wrong soon enough.

"Yeah, doesn't quite fit in with the theme song, huh?" Holly replied, and he blinked, thrown slightly. Off his discontented grunt, she began to hum a few bars from it. When Steve groaned outright and actually pulled away, she followed, rolling on top of him and singing a couple of the verses that she could recall with false cheer. Sleep was forgotten for the moment, as she caught a second wind getting a rise out of him. Her knees framed his hips, boxing him in as she hovered above him, the teasing with the USO song continuing. The pads of her fingers tapped the beat against his chest and she nudged his jaw with her nose, following the line of it as his head turned in a vain attempt to get away. Pleading with her to stop accomplished nothing—and pushing her off would make it worse—so he endured it. Good grief, that song was irritating; he hadn't minded it all that much back on the tour, but right now it was digging at him. Whoever had reminded her about the song's existence was due for a good punch (when he later found out that it was Sam, ages ago, he made good on his promise and socked him in the shoulder). Despite himself, the soft crooning of her voice stirred him and was overpowering the annoyance that flared up. More likely the sparking in his veins had to do with her proximity to him, and her skittering touches, as she "pinned" him to the mattress. By the time she started poking him in the sides, prodding his ticklish spots and going on about the Star Spangled Man with a Plan, he'd had enough.

Tangling his hand into her hair and crushing his mouth to hers, Steve flipped Holly underneath him, her laughter muffled and dying away as he kissed her breathless. In that moment, he was determined to start making her sing a different tune entirely.

 **xXxXxXx**

Knocks pounded against the front door, echoing through the quiet house. The floorboards creaked underneath the runner as Doctor Gregory strode across it. The low of hum of activity that always seemed to be present in the summer months had died down quite a bit, the bite of fall wedging its way into the lives of all those residing at the Country House. At the moment, the staff was at the bare minimum, the patients whittled down to one current resident. Combing a hand through her silvered brown hair, she took a couple deep breaths before opening the door, pulling herself up to her full height and plastering a pleasant smile on her face.

"Director Fury," she greeted the visitor, expression cordial. It had been some time since he'd stopped by the house, given his varying schedule at the moment. He was poised on the front porch, flicking a glance back to the open space down the gravel path, the quinjet she'd heard earlier cycling through its cool-down.

"Doctor Gregory," he returned, adjusting the lay of his black jacket. Tipping a hand forward in silent question, he waited until she stepped back, gesturing for him to come inside. The heat of the house flooded over him once she'd shut the door, welcoming him as it had done for so many others.

"You're early," she stated bluntly, crossing her arms over chest and meeting his gaze directly.

"I prefer to see it as right on time," he countered lightly. The humorous glint in his eye dimmed somewhat as he cast another look around the place, the turn of his lips evening out. "I'm here for evaluation."

"I know, director." It was typical of Fury to come in near the end of a patient's treatment, to take a look at timeline of progress and assess accordingly. From there, he would discuss with her, or whichever doctor was working on the case in particular, whether or not to extend rehabilitation. However, she was not about to let him be buoyed by false hope; she hadn't done so for the twenty years she'd known him, and she wasn't about to start now. "But, as always, I will remind you that the healing process is fluid, and there are no set end points for it, no matter what deadlines you may impose."

"And, as always, I'll say that I understand," he replied blandly, focusing on her again. He held her gaze for a long moment, a thread of gravity entering them. "I do, Libba."

A long pause stretched between them, the grandfather clock ticking audibly down the hall and Nick scratching below the band of his eye patch.

"He can't stay here forever."

Libba was hard-pressed not to snort and chuckle at that.

"I should think he'd have a few objections to doing so, no matter what he says to the contrary," she informed him, hands going onto her hips. Nodding towards the door down the hall and to the left, she continued, "Since it is his evaluation, I will require that he be a part of it."

Fury did not raise any objections to that, instead treading down the carpeted boards to the door she'd indicated.

"I'll be waiting in your office."

The dismissal was impossible to miss, and she felt her lips quirk as he disappeared behind the door. Shaking her head to herself, she cast a glance heavenward before squaring herself up again. She had to go find James, and she knew exactly where to start.

Her hypothesis of his location was confirmed as she heard the muffled grunts and thumps coming from behind the door of the barn. From almost the beginning of his treatment there, he often would stay out there for hours at a time, the converted gym space at his mercy as he exorcised whatever demons he had lurking in his soul that their talks and walks could not erase. On his bad days, which thankfully were thinning out, he could be out there all day, absorbed in the weights, the punching bag, the gymnastics equipment, losing himself so as to not lose his mind entirely. However, she had it on good authority that today was not a bad day.

Thumping hard on the door so as not to sneak up on and startle him, she alerted him to her presence.

"James?" she called, sliding the panels to the right to enter. When he did not answer her right away, she hovered in the door frame, curious as to why he did not respond. Closing it behind her, she rounded the corner, the sight before her making her eyebrows incline and her head tilt to the left. Barnes had been working out with the punching bag, a fairly normal exercise for him. However, due to his repeated assault on the bag, the material around it had started to fray. Unfortunately, so had the bindings around his metal hand. He was caught up, literally, in the strands, attempting to free himself and making a bigger mess out of it the longer he went on. Purposefully clearing her throat, Libba tamped down the laughter she was tempted to let loose as he whipped his head up. Though his face already burned from exertion, she was sure that he felt it heating up even more at being found in that manner.

"Hey, doc," he drawled, a corner of his mouth turning up almost sheepishly. Carding his free hand through his dark tresses—recently cut again, the loose strands flopping over his brow—he inclined his head at the bag, catching his breath. "Got a little carried away again."

"Not a problem," she replied, coming forward to help him out. It wasn't the first time she'd found broken equipment and James in the same room. At that point, it was almost bordering on routine; his advanced strength got the better of him at times, and then his cybernetic arm would enhance the problem if given the chance. It was an exasperating routine, to be sure, but she believed it went with the territory of treating a super soldier-turned-assassin. Gently disentangling the knots that had formed around his fingers, he was freed soon enough. Muttering his thanks, he walked over to the far wall, to the bench pushed up against it. A water bottle was perched there, and he took a long drink from it.

"He's here," he blurted when he'd finished. It wasn't a question; he'd known that Fury would be coming soon, as Libba had warned him would be the case. He'd also heard the jet when it had landed, but he had ignored it at the time, too lost in his movements and routine to let it bother him.

"Yes," she confirmed for him. He exhaled sharply out his nose, eyes dropping to the floor. Libba tucked her hands into the pockets of her sweater. She would not push into attendance right away. She would give him the option of cleaning up first. "We'll be waiting for you in the house whenever you're ready."

As she turned on her heel and marched out of the barn, Bucky took several deep breaths, willing the sudden spring of anxiety to lower (a meditative technique Natasha had shared with him in one of her letters. He didn't have to hold with the notions behind it, but she did import how it had helped calm her down in times of stress). Though he had been told of the director's imminent arrival, it was still hard to believe that he was so close to the end of his tenure there. There were times during his stint in which he wanted nothing more than to be gone, away and doing whatever he wished, so long as he wasn't there. And then other times, he could not fathom leaving the place behind. For the first time in years, he'd actually gotten a sense of home there, gotten the sense of safety. Perhaps it was artificial—for sure, it was temporary—but he had not felt that good about being somewhere on his own in such a long time. The world was bearable, not seeming like it would tilt on in its axis and throw him off at any given moment. If he had to give it a name, he would call it peace.

He frowned to himself, frowned at the sentiment that did feel belonged to him. Taking another swig from his water bottle, he stowed it in the small bag he'd brought out with him, leaving the barn and trudging up the short path to the house. He had half a mind to make the director wait as he showered and changed, but he decided against it. He was too eager to hear whether or not he would be allowed to go back into the world in fourteen days. Dropping his workout bag by the foot of the stairs once inside, he proceeded to the back room to the left, where he knew the doctor's office would be. Forgoing knocking, he swung the portal open, catching Libba mid-sentence, her focus drawn from the man in the chair to the doorway. Turning in his seat, the man looked up at him, eye scanning him with an unimpressed air.

"Sergeant Barnes," the other man said, nodding once to him. He did not extend his hand to shake, merely laced his fingers together and set them in his lap. Oddly enough, Bucky was grateful that he was ignoring traditional pleasantries. It was better to simply get down to business.

"Sir," he murmured, blue eyes darting between him and the doctor as she went around to the other side of her desk. Gregory tipped a palm towards the open chair, motioning for him to sit down as she did. Taking the seat, Barnes settled in for what he was sure would be a long, drawn-out process.

Case notes stuffed into a file folder were laid across the blotter, though she only went through it and selected a few pieces of paper. Nearly six months worth of papers, solely about him and his progress in retaining the humanity he'd snatch back over a year and a half ago. Stats, buzzwords filtered in and out of his hearing; Bucky was not truly paying attention to all that they were discussing. A few of the various exercises and treatments used were mentioned, and his mind trailed away, upstairs to the stash of letters he had save in the drawer of his bedside table. Those sheets of paper really had been his saving grace, the friendliness of Steve and Natasha's brusque brand of kindness anchoring him in a way he had never expected. If he passed the evaluation—and nothing in Fury's demeanor gave away the truth, one way or another—he would get to see them again. Get to actually talk to them, get situated in the real world beyond the small patch of farmland. He could start over, something that he wanted so terribly in that moment, he could almost taste it. Silence creeped in them, and he had finally noticed the sets of eyes boring into him. Clearing his throat, he fully focused on the doctor, a lopsided grin given in apology.

"Overall, your initial prognosis has improved, James. You are doing fairly well," Libba declared, no hint of maliciousness or deceit in her words. She genuinely thought he was improving. He had no answer for her, other than lifting a shoulder. "And I believe you will continue to do so, provided you actively seek that improvement. If you still wish to work with Director Fury at the end of your tenure here, I will recommend continued appointments. I can refer you to a few other doctors who can assist you, or we can communicate via video calls twice weekly, if you would prefer to still work with me." She paused again, a lightning-fast glance shot to the director. Spotting it, Bucky stiffened in his seat, watching her and waiting for what she had to say next. "However, I cannot and will not force you into anything you do not wish to do. If you decide instead to leave permanently, that is your choice."

His choice. It would be his choice. There was a chance that he could simply walk away, refuse Fury's offer from May, blend back into the world and attempt to start a life on his own. However, he didn't think he could do that. Not now. He understood how limited his options were in the outside world. Even with the treatment he had, he knew deep down how impossible it would be to go out and pretend he was like everyone. The truth was, he wasn't like everyone else. Not anymore. He would only get by for so long in denial before the worst caught up to him. Frankly, he did not want that to happen. Or, rather, if the worst did catch up to him, he would rather have it happen when he was in a position to fight back against it. Fight against it with a friend or two at his back.

He did have a choice, but he'd known which one he was going to pick before it was even presented to him.

"If I'm cleared to leave in two weeks...I'll go with you," he said, looking at Fury for the first time since he'd sat down. A hint of a grin played at the man's lips, though he appeared as calm as ever. Bucky's lips curved up a bit as well, lighting it up as he shrugged his shoulders. "Might as well."

"I appreciate the confident attitude, Mr. Barnes," Fury returned flatly, the hint of sarcasm coloring the statement. Rising from his chair, he looked down at Bucky, holding his gaze steadily for a moment or two. Extending his left palm, he waited for him to return the gesture, metal grazing across skin as they shook hands. Bending slightly at the waist, the older man's eyes intensified as he removed his grip. "Two weeks. Don't waste them."

Bucky, though not intimidated, did nod compliance. There was no way he would do so.

"No, sir."

"Good. I'll let Rogers know what you decided, see what we can work out for you. In occupational terms, I mean. I think you have the housing one squared away?" He waited until Barnes dipped his chin again, straightening up when that was confirmed. The captain had obliquely indicated that, one way or another, Barnes was going to live with him and his wife until he was steady on his feet. "Alright, then."

Closing the distance between the chairs and the door, the director cranked open the handle, stepping out into the hall. Inclining his head once more, he bade farewell to the two remaining occupants of the room before swinging it shut. Silently, they listened as his footsteps faded, the front door opening and slamming shut. The house was still for a second, the quiet broken only by their separate breaths. Soon enough, Bucky let out a deep groan, leaning forward in his chair. Elbows were on his knees and he laced his hands together, pressing them firmly against one another to stop himself from being overly exuberant.

"You have done well, James," Libba reaffirmed softly, the pleased smile decorating her face filling him with a sense of hope. She believed it, and perhaps he could start believing it, too.

"Thanks, doc," he told her, taking a deep breath, and then another. "I think I'm ready to move on. Gotta reenter the world sometime."

The somberness in his eyes cracked then, the truth of his person shining through in that instant. The doctor leaned forward in her chair, scooping up the case notes and returning them to the folder with a resolute air.

"Well, then we better make good use of the next two weeks."

* * *

 **A/N:** Holy balls, another incredibly long chapter. Thanks for sticking with it, if you did. It is appreciated, believe me...

So much going down for everyone in roughly two weeks' time. Crazy, right?

By the way, I did not mean to come off (inadvertently) like a prick in the last chapter's author's note. Really, truly...I didn't meant anything malicious, I promise! I know that, unlike me, you guys have busy lives of your own, and you've got other priorities than this story. I'm sorry if I insinuated anything awful, that was not my intent at all!

Anyway, I thought it was about time to return to Bucky. I know, I haven't really showed much of what his progress has entailed. That's mainly because I am very, very leery about applying any technical psychological terms and treatments to the poor guy, given that I actually know little about such things. However, there's no way I would disregard the poor guy. I think he's getting good treatment...just off-page at the moment. As the doctor said, recovery is fluid. I know that much. Meanwhile, he'll be out of the Country House very, very soon!

I totally think SHIELD would throw bangin' parties. It's a celebration that you made it to the holiday period, and you could die before the next one. Live it up!

And yes, Steve and Holly got the house. There was no way I was gonna tease that and then not have it happen. :) I'm getting a little too good at writing the cutesy, fluffy stuff. Can't help it, though. And I know a bunch of you guys are primed and waiting for the other shoe to drop...oh, don't worry, stuff's gonna happen. It's just going to take a little while to get there. In the meantime, enjoy the cavity-inducing sweetness. :-P

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Netflix, _Top Gun, The Addams Family, Sherlock Holmes,_ etc.) And in this universe, _I Love Lucy_ is available for streaming on Netflix. Because why not?

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

EDIT: To all my unsigned-in/anonymous and signed-in reviewers...thank you all for your support and kind words! I try my hardest to make the writing/characters come off well and be enjoyable to read. I hope this suffices in thanking you guys. Everybody rocks, and deserves a cookie!


	7. Chapter 7

Steve Rogers glanced in the mirror, smoothing down his clothes and a frown blooming on his lips. He so wanted that Saturday in early November to be spent differently. However, it was not meant to be; the United Nations representative had chosen her arrival and tour for the base for that day, after months of delays and other obligations. It was his duty, as team leader, to be present for the event, and normally he would not be so put out to do so. It was the additional personages that would be accompanying her that gave him pause. That, and the fact that he had to make the effort to look well for the initial greeting and tour of the base. Of course, he would follow through, but that did not mean he liked it. Back on the stage, back in the tights, his mind chanted at him. Back to showing off and playing up a crowd with a persona he did not own.

He'd left that behind years ago. And while the situation he was in now was nothing like the tour days, it held the same distinct flavoring, in some aspects.

"This is ridiculous," he groused to his own reflection, hands braced on the edges of the counter as he leaned against it. The ends of his tie swung forward, the thing loose as he carded a hand through his hair. Holly, who had been shoving clothes and towels from the hamper into the nearby laundry basket, shot him a look before straightening. She knew how little he wanted to be a part of the whole, knew that his preferences ran to the work and not to the politics, but there was nothing for it.

"Hey, you know about the importance of first impressions. You can't show up looking like you've just tussled with rogue agents all morning," she reminded him in a helpful tone. As he passed a hand over his face, she let her eyes scan over him. Blue dress shirt, dark slacks, his good shoes...it wasn't a bad choice in the least. Especially once he finished assembling his tie and put the leather jacket on. Looking down at herself, still wrapped in her pajamas, she sighed. "It's not like you're required to wear a three-piece suit or anything."

"Yeah, but the councilwoman knows me already," he riposted, shaking his head. Lifting a palm, he gestured to himself. "This feels like...pandering. Particularly when it comes to the general."

If it had just been Hawley coming to the base, he wouldn't have been as affected. Hell, if Hawley had insisted on an entourage of other representatives coming along for the ride, he could've toughed it out. However, it hadn't been an entourage that would be infringing on the space. It would be Secretary Ross, and that rankled more than anything. Combing through his hair to make it lie right, he missed the thoughtful expression his wife donned.

"Well, he is the Secretary of Defense, now. A lot of what people do for politicians is pandering, to some extent," Holly pointed out, coming into the bathroom and hoisting herself up onto the counter-top. One leg swung back and forth, her heel barely thumping the cabinet door as she did so. Looking up, she caught the hardness invading her husband's expression, the light in his eyes dying as stiffened his spine.

"Secretary of State, actually. Not that he deserves it. Not in the least." Steve's jaw clenched, taking on a mulish set for a few seconds. In a hushed tone, he went on, "Not after what he'd done to Bruce, to his own soldiers."

She dropped her gaze to her knees as she considered the point. Though he had not shared explicit details (as most of those were still buried under mountains of red tape), a few finer points about the general's character had surfaced. Some which Bruce himself had alluded to, in the few, brief interactions she had with him. In essence, the general was partly responsible for the creation of the Hulk, his own desires to recreate the very serum flowing through Steve's veins sparking unforeseen consequences. Consequences that put a university at risk, caused damage to a neighborhood in a major city, and cost the lives and livelihoods of dozens of people. It would have been one thing if the man realized the danger of his own actions, of his own hubris, but publicly, he had shown himself to be unapologetic in the least for it. Indeed, he'd called for Banner's arrest and detainment almost as soon as the news from Johannesburg came in six months ago, calling him dangerous and the Avengers as reckless and uncaring of what damages they wrought.

"Maybe not," she conceded, not willing to argue in his favor at all, once she recalled all that she'd heard and seen (she investigated a few things for herself, on her downtime in archives; she definitely didn't like what she saw there). "For some, past service outweighs present, and he must've done some good in the past to stay upfront."

"When it comes to the bottom line, yes. He did." Steve did know that the general had distinguished himself during the Vietnam War, rising through the ranks as the years went by for his tactical brilliance and valor. Still, that valor and honor had not been maintained well over the years, and it had started to show. Especially after the failed attempts to make another super soldier. His eyebrows rose slightly as his hands went back to the tie, ready to finish what he started. "But there are several reasons why he's primarily a politician now."

A politician that was very vocal about his team's position in the world, and about their efforts. Or lack thereof. A disgruntled man who hated them more for letting Banner go than for the collateral damages they wrought (and who ignored their clean-up and relocation efforts just as easily). His mind thusly occupied, Steve's fingers fumbled with the tie, and he huffed out an irritated breath.

"Here," Holly murmured, crooking her fingers at him to come closer. As he stepped up to her, into the V of her legs, she carefully seized the ends of his tie. As he let out another hum of frustration, she concentrated on tying it for him. She wasn't as adept as he at the task, but given his state at the moment, she was his best bet at getting it finished. Making the cross and looping it under slowly, she glanced up at him, dark eyes peeking beneath the lashes. "You're not doing this for him. You're doing it for Hill, and the team, and for yourself. It's important, even if it feels like it's not. Just remember that when you feel like ripping this off and running for the suit. Or your sweats. Although that would be quite a sight."

Concentrating on her ministrations, he allowed himself to be lulled out of the darkening musings of his mind. A corner of his mouth lifted at her words, his palms coming to rest at her sides.

"You'd like that, huh?" he wondered suggestively, thumbs brushing along her hips. Her eyes flicked up, and her own grin widened.

"Of course, I would. But we both know you won't do that." One last loop through, and the tie was completed. Her fingers went to the top buttons of his shirt, securing them before drawing the tie to sit snugly in place. "So you'll just have to suck it up, buttercup."

"Right," he sighed heavily. The bright blue of his gaze dulled again, and his head drooped. Her hands moved down the front of his shirt to loop around his back. Splayed palms kept him in place, the pads of her fingers gently circling in the shirt's material.

"It'll be fine," she tried to reassure him, pecking him on the cheek, the warm and spicy scent of his aftershave lingering faintly. He would do alright, she knew he would. And he'd have Maria and Tony there with him to back him up in case there was any trouble. "You'll see."

The barest nod of his head came after that, his own hands going to the small of her back and his forehead resting against hers.

"Wish I could go with you, instead," he lamented aloud.

"I wish you could, too," she confided, deflating a little as she thought about what she needed to do that afternoon. "I'm not sure he'll be glad that it's me picking him up."

Where Steve would be spending his Saturday afternoon catering to the whims of a councilwoman and a blowhard general-turned-secretary, she would be traversing down to Albany to pick up a reformed assassin. Bucky Barnes had been approved for his discharge from the rehabilitation facility, and was due to arrive back East within the next few hours. A short, tense discussion between the pair and Director Fury had concluded with Holly being tasked with bringing the fellow away from the airport. They had decided it would be better for someone he knew to come get him, rather than to be bundled to and fro by agents as if he were a lost parcel and not a human being. She could afford to give him that decency. Still, it was hard to say who had gotten the better deal out of the events of the day, considering the history between her and Barnes was not the best.

"It will be okay. Bucky knows you," Steve said, withdrawing from her embrace to grab up his jacket. As he slid his arms into it, he shot her a snarky grin. "So long as you don't try hitting him with a bat, you'll be good."

Holly scoffed, going to cross her arms over her chest and choosing instead to wrap them around her middle at the last second.

"I only did that because I thought he was attempting to kill you after breaking into my apartment," she muttered, shaking her head. "Forgive me if I've offended."

His smile brightened significantly. "Already forgiven, doll."

The groan in her throat was almost a growl, her eyes rolling up and her hands cutting through the air dismissively. Jumping down from her seat on the counter, she moved around him to go back into their bedroom, avoiding his curious glance as she hunted for clothes to change into.

"Hey, come on," he called out, her hunching shoulders her only answer. After swiping his fingers through his hair one last time, he flicked off the bathroom light. Leaning against the doorjamb, his eyes lingered on her as she pulled a long-sleeved tee over her head, jeans replacing the sweatpants she'd been wearing. Her movements were controlled, but there was a terseness to them, a jerk and twist in her fingers as she got ready. Like him, she was uncertain of what the afternoon could hold, of a certain person she would have to interact with, and it was telling. As she gathered up her hair into a ponytail (just past shoulder-length now; it was the longest it had been since he'd first met her, and he loved it), he strode over to her, the loose strands around her face twined gently around his finger before being tucked behind her ear. "It will be alright. And odds are, Fury will have you tailed to make sure nothing does happen."

Wary brown eyes connected with hopeful blue, and she scrubbed a hand across her brow, very aware of the sudden role reversal.

"Comforting," she retorted sarcastically, a wry grin turning her lips in spite of her feelings. A discreet escort being provided did not surprise her in the least, and perhaps it should have bothered her, but at the moment, she was grateful for it. Once she completed dressing, Holly and Steve went about the unspoken task of last-minute chores. One load of laundry was chugging away in the washer, the breakfast dishes rinsed and drying the rack (despite the house coming with a dishwasher, both of them were still used to doing the task by hand). Coats were gathered up, thrown on as they exited the back door and locked up the house. Strapping his shield onto the harness along the back of the seat in his truck, Steve came around to Holly's car just as she threw in her purse, triple-checking to make sure she had the clearance pass to enter the airfield.

"Be safe," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly for several seconds. Returning the embrace, she rested her chin on his shoulder, gaze darting up. Beyond the paneling and girders of the garage lay an overcast sky. The chill in the air was biting, a crisp scent in the cold.

"I'll try. Hopefully we'll get back before the snow comes in," she replied, thinking back to the weather forecast she'd heard that morning. Upstate, in the valley of the mountains, there was a tendency for snow to accumulate early, and the meteorologist had predicted some flurries for the later afternoon. A native Midwesterner, she knew how quickly flurries could turn into a storm, and she did not want to run into one of those. Drawing back a little, she kissed him farewell, soft and sweet. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he breathed, taking her encouragement and holding onto it. One last press to her lips, and then he stepped back, watching as she got into her car and backed out of the garage. He waved a little when she turned back, her horn tapped twice in a return gesture before driving off.

The trip into Albany was uneventful, save for the pockets of leftover roadwork that Holly hit along the way. They were remnants of the summer work, a few bumpy patches here and there that were tolerable. Still, there was nothing to really complain about as she navigated the New York roads, turning off the freeway past the country club. An hour and a half had gone by, but Holly had hardly noticed, given her immense concentration and being lost in her own thoughts.

It had been six months since she'd last seen Bucky, when she was bidding him good-bye along with Steve and Sam. Off to find healing, true healing, and to figure out what he wanted to do in the world. He'd seemed so lost then, underneath the thick layer of blankness and hardness. She was did not know what she would find. Each time she'd met with Bucky, he'd been altered from the previous encounter, changing and unpredictable. It made her nervous about what his condition would be like. From what Steve had shared of his letters, he seemed to be making improvements, forming into someone her husband actually recognized as containing pieces of his old self. It just made her wish that Steve really could be there to see him, to judge and look to see what she might miss.

Driving to a gate further down the way, she showed the guards the temporary pass she'd been issued, letting her in with little incident or ceremony. She was directed to a far hangar, parking and joining a small crowd that had gathered for the incoming flight's occupants. Her hands thrust deep into her pockets for warmth, one curling around the pepper spray and the other around her Taser. Not knowing who to trust in the swarm of people put her a little on edge, and she'd come prepared, just in case. If neither option did the trick, she did have her collapsible bat clipped to a belt loop, ready to be extended and charged if needed. The nausea she'd felt earlier in the morning had returned, her stomach clenching tightly at the thought of Bucky's return being imminent. Soon enough, the small, white aircraft was descending, hitting the runway at a distance and braking hard. Rumbling close to the hangar, a tiny cart-like vehicle sped out, attaching to the front of the jet and towing it inside. The crowd around her stirred as it reached a full halt, some of them beginning to surge forward as the motorized stairs sped out and latched onto the side hatch. Hanging back, Holly watched as passenger after passenger filed off, a couple of tired businessmen in overcoats followed by a haggard mother and her diffident teenage son. A man in a dark blue ball cap lumbered down the stairs behind them, his thick canvas jacket shrugged on over his sweatshirt, heavy boots clomping with each step. Hands were wrapped in gloves, the right tucked away while the left hefted a large duffel bag. Stormy blue eyes scanned the crowd, focusing intently on Holly when he realized she was there. Inclining his head, he made his way over to her, gaze shifting back and forth as he walked (old habits dying hard, she surmised).

"James," she greeted him tentatively when he was close enough. Unsure what sort of opening gestures he'd accept, she settled for extending her hand out to him. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from his pocket, taking hers and shaking it carefully.

"Hi...Holly," he replied, brow furrowing a little as he spoke. Eyebrows quirking up, she snickered a little at his hesitance.

"You played bodyguard for a year, and you almost forgot my name?" she wondered, not a little incredulous as she dropped his hand. Granted, he hadn't called her by her name in the time that she'd known him, but she never thought that he'd forget it that quickly.

"Actually, it was only for about six months," he corrected mildly. Shrugging a shoulder, he continued, "And I did remember, I just...I just didn't know if you wanted me to use it."

The corner of her mouth turned up, and the clench in her stomach loosened. "What else would you call me?"

"Well, you are Missus Rogers, now," he retorted, shooting a look at where her left hand resided in her jacket pocket.

"Missus _Holly_ Rogers, yes," was the affirmation. Tipping her head to the side, she started to lead the way out to the parking spaces, ready to get out of there. Flicking a few fingers in the air, she said, "Formality's not a big thing, particularly not after...well, everything."

Not after stumbling into her path, leaving a wounded hero in her charge. Not after breaking into her apartment, just to get answers. Definitely not after repeatedly watching out for her, protecting her from enemies she did not know about. Most certainly not after he met her challenge to assist the team, to help Steve, in an hour of greatest need. If that didn't put them on a first-name basis, she didn't know what would at that point.

Comprehending all that, Bucky's lips twitched, a facsimile of a grin growing as he followed her out.

"True enough, I guess."

Tripping back to the Buick, Holly cast another look over her shoulder at him. Nothing about his expression told her that he was displeased to see her there, but she knew he had to be wondering why it wasn't Steve at the airport, why his friend could not greet him as well.

"Steve wanted to be here, but..." she hastened to explain, trailing off when unsure of exactly how much she was actually permitted to tell him. After a few seconds, she came to the conclusion that telling him a couple of minor details couldn't hurt; it wasn't like if he was of a mind to do something about it, that he could do anything, anyway. "The base is supposed to undergo a review, and today happened to be the day the rep picked. If he missed that, it wouldn't be good."

"I think Fury mentioned something about that," he responded, dipping his chin as he dumped his bag into the backseat. It landed with a muffled thump, and she tossed a glance at it as he closed the door and moved to the front passenger seat. Climbing in, his hand slid awkwardly to the seat belt, buckling it with unsteady fingers. "The United Nations is involved, right?"

There was little that he knew about the major organization, other than that his friend's team was associated and sponsored by it, and that it promoted international peace and security, among other things. That was the briefest overview that he was given in his time away, one minute in the hours spent in research to better understand the world around him. If he wanted a better definition of the organization or its policies, he was going to have continue his research on his own time.

"Yes," Holly answered shortly, turning the key in the ignition and firing up the car. She hadn't meant to sound curt, but Steve's earlier reticence resurfaced in her mind and spilled over into her voice. Though she encouraged him to make the best of the situation, she herself didn't hold out hope for the Secretary of State to behave. Already thinking ahead to what might happen, it was coloring her attitude. Inhaling deeply, she forced herself to push it down and away, finally putting the car into drive and taking them away. Observing her in silence for a few moments, Bucky snorted aloud.

"Strange to think how much has changed, and still...some things haven't."

"Such as?" she queried, negotiating a right turn and getting back onto the highway.

The smirk he was holding back came to the fore, and he looked down at his hands as they folded in his lap.

"Being forced to put up with bureaucracy, no matter what decade it is or what theater you're in," he said, shaking his head and directing his gaze out the window. "Pain in the ass."

Laughing at that, Holly nodded. "Absolutely."

Due to the impending weather, or more accurately, due to the behavior of people whenever the slightest bit of impending weather was announced, Holly had directed the vehicle across town to one of the chain stores for some supplies. When given the option of going inside with her or staying out on his own in the car, Bucky elected to remain where he was, listening to the faint purr of the engine beneath the music playing on the radio. Evidently she preferred piano compilations when driving, and he could see why; though unrecognizable, they were calming, soothing him after the harrying flight. The morning for him had been a blur of packing, hurried farewells to Libba and being shunted out the door by waiting agents to get him delivered and onto his flight without delay. Flying the way he had allowed him to retain his anonymity to some extent. It was less conspicuous than landing with undue pomp and ceremony at either the base or the helicarrier, and for that he was grateful. Glancing out the window, tapping his fingers against his knees, he glanced around the filling parking lot, noting a couple of noteworthy characters (agents, he knew that much, sent by Fury; he remembered the blonde woman from her stint in August, and she had caught him staring across the lot. A wink and smirk were her only acknowledgment as she continued to pretend to chatter on her phone). The back door whipped open again, and he witnessed the growing pile of plastic bags filled with groceries tumbling from Holly's hands.

Purposefully rerouting the car to avoid the leftover construction projects, Holly would occasionally ask a question, or put forth an opinion on something, just for the sake of having more than pure silence between them. Bucky found it amusing, and would answer one way or another. At the back of his mind, though, a nagging feeling sat, one that he couldn't ignore or push aside. It grew a little bit in volume every time they exchanged words, and he knew he would not be able to quell it for much longer. The city began to melt behind them, trees and hills bordered by mountains in the distance. The sight captured his attention, the raw beauty of the terrain so different from the homey nature of the Country House. He'd been to so many places, seen mountains and hills like it before, but he could appreciate the scenery stretching around them as they moved off the freeway onto the country roads. Minutes ticked by, and they eventually turned off the tarred road, crunching up a gravel path. A slate-blue house swam into view, the two-story building nestled between banks of pines and maple trees. They ground past the front porch, a bench hidden behind the slats of the railings. Going around to the back, the car halted inside a wide garage, empty save for some storage units stacked along the far wall and the covered motorcycle parked in the corner. The engine ticked and pinged in its cool-down, the pair climbing out of the vehicle to start unloading. Throwing the strap of his duffel to cross over his body, Bucky assisted Holly in bringing in the grocery bags, peering over her shoulder as she strode up to the back door. A digital panel appeared, and she tapped at the displayed keypad hurriedly.

"We'll get you a set of codes for yourself for entry soon enough," she told him, a set of locks clicking and with her inserting her key to complete the action. A wash of heat flowed over him as she swung the door open, banishing the brief chill that had encompassed them. Stepping into the kitchen, the bags were shunted onto the wide counters and the table pressed into the nook. Her coat was slung off, draped over the back of a chair before her purse joined it. Fixing her bobbing ponytail, she took stock of the room, not seeing anything out of place. Awkwardly, he stood in the middle of it all, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on his jacket. Inclining her head, she started to pad away. "Here, I'll show you your room."

She led him over the threshold into the hall, another door opening to the steps that led to the basement. The floor at the bottom was tiled, the space wide open with the exceptions of the two rooms. At one end stood a weight bench and lifting set, a punching bag strung up securely. At the other, an easel with boxes of art supplies stood, ready to be used at a moment's notice. Passing the laundry machines set up around the corner, she showed him the bathroom that would be his. It was a small space, but the shower, sink, and toilet would suit his functions well. The bedroom, which actually was a den space, was just beyond that. A full-size bed took up the far corner, the window above it shaded for security purposes. Well-loved sheets and quilts in varying shades of blue were heaped on it, the bedside table matching the dresser and old desk's darker tones. A tiny, empty bookshelf was shoved into the opposite corner, and in the middle of a floor stood a woven disaster of blue and orange, covering the panels under the feet.

Staring at the ugly monstrosity for a few seconds, Bucky coughed. "...Like the rug."

Holly snorted out a laugh, shaking her head. "Survivor of the college days. Better than stepping onto cold tile in the middle of the night. There are a couple rooms upstairs, too, but we figured you'd want a bit of space while you're here."

More likely they wanted their space, free space without him encroaching on their territory, he muttered inwardly. Not that he blamed them for that, no. The fact that Steve and his wife were opening up their home to him period was enough. Outwardly, he dropped his bag onto the end of the mattress, sinking down beside it. It was a place to stay, a room for him to utilize. He could appreciate that.

"I guess," he mumbled, casting a glance around him again. Meeting her eyeline again, he told her, "Thank you."

Canting her head to the left, she lifted a shoulder, pivoting on her heel to go. "No problem."

The nagging voice in his mind returned, demanded attention. Demanded to be heard. And before he could stop himself, his tongue was moving on its own accord.

"You're okay with this." It wasn't a question, but he was curious as to her answer. Her true answer, without Steve's filter applied to it. Exhaling softly, she turned to look at him again, lip caught between her teeth as she pondered her answer. Pondered how honest she should be. Well, it wouldn't do for her to lie about the situation, not to his face. But she could attempt tact.

"You wouldn't be here if I wasn't," she said plainly. The guilelessness in her face told him that she wasn't concealing anything from him, but the flick of her gaze to the side told him there was more to it than that.

"Really."

Dark eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms, going into a defensive stance that told him to be on guard.

"Yes, really," she emphasized, blowing out another breath. Reaching up and pinching the bridge of her nose, she continued, "Look, I know you and I don't have the best relationship—"

"Yeah, I intimidate you and you hit me with baseball bats," he cut in, summing up their interactions as succinctly and sardonically as he could.

"—But I do know that all that you were made to be is not who you are. You've proven that a few times now, at least in my presence. And you stepped up when it counted." Holly met his gaze directly, her arms tightening subconsciously around her middle. Taking another breath, she sputtered, "If you want me to be honest, then fine, I don't have the same, unwavering level of trust that my husband has in you. Lack of history between us hasn't made that possible. Or, lack of good history between us, I should say. Still, I do trust you enough to let you have a place to stay." Pausing, the strength of her words, of the truth behind them, sank in. "If it had been a year ago that I was asked to do this, then the answer would've been a no. That's changed. We've changed."

His stark, unwavering gaze locked onto hers for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Alright."

"Good. I'm keeping faith in the situation. You should, too," she iterated. Another brief silence, and then she hooked a thumb backward. "You get settled, I'm gonna go start the next load of laundry."

Turning around, Holly went out the door, preparing to leave him to his own devices. Before Bucky even had time to rise from his seat on the bed, her pattering footsteps clattered outside the room. Reappearing in the doorway, she jabbed a finger in his direction, her brow furrowed.

"And I only hit you one time with the bat!"

Bucky smirked, shrugging a shoulder. "Technically, you hit me twice. But who's counting?"

Her eyes narrowed, hands settling on her hips. "Do you wanna go for a third?"

Though not frightened in the slightest, Bucky did bow his head, a corner of his mouth turning up in a genuine grin.

"No, thank you, ma'am," he intoned politely, watching as she rolled her eyes and walked away, her mutterings about sarcastic super soldiers lost as she tromped back up the stairs. Chuckling to himself, Bucky moved to his bag, unzipping it and preparing to deposit his few worldly possessions in his new room. The muted noises of her steps, of her mumbled curses at the machines and the clothes she was moving around, popped in and out of his hearing as he went. Clothes fit into the dresser, the couple of books he had sneaked out dropped onto the shelf. The letters and photos he was sent were scattered across the desktop before he moved back to the bathroom to distribute toiletries. The task was over quickly, and soon enough he was shucking off his boots, jacket, and cap. Debating on whether or not to catch up on his sleep (unacknowledged excitement had kept him up over the last couple of days), he ultimately decided against it, instead wandering back upstairs in search of something else to do.

Turning right down the hall, he entered upon the living room, eyes going wide at the tall bookshelves surrounding the television. His doctor had accumulated quite a collection, but most of those were medical and psychological texts, things he didn't have a hope of understand. The private collection of the facility had a few good titles, but nothing quite like that. It wasn't massive, to be sure, but he wasn't expecting there to be many books in the house. His initial plan of watching the television (after obtaining permission) went right out the window. His gaze flitted from one to the next, series beside series—they had the continuation of the fantasy stories he'd started back at the Country House, and he let out an appreciative whistle. A familiar title caught his attention, and he was hard-pressed to ignore it. Removing the slim paperback from its perch, he turned it over in his hand, large eyes rimmed by wire frames above a city decorating the front.

"Good choice," came a voice from behind him, his head snapping up and his body whirling around to face the intruder. He had heard her coming in, but he did not think Holly would encroach on his space as she had. Hastily, she took a step back, hands raised in a gesture of supplication. Taking a few deep breaths, he managed to nod at her, schooling his expression into one that was less...disturbed.

"Yeah, I...I remember reading it, back in the day," he confessed carefully, fingers shuffling along the spine. "I liked it, I think."

"Me too, once I got out of high school English and actually gave it a chance." She flapped a hand in the air, brushing it off. "Required reading sucks, but this one turned out alright."

"This is required material for courses now?" he wondered, looking at it again with renewed scrutiny. From what he recalled of the plot, he did not think that teachers would want to involve that story into the curriculum. According to Holly, he was wrong. "Huh."

"Yeah. I imagine they're having a tougher time reinforcing the whole 'no movie version' rule now that the one with Leo is out."

An eyebrow spiked, confusion evident in his gaze. "Leo?"

A hand passed over her face, palm muffling her mouth, though he heard the stifled "old men," "more pop culture," and "Good God." He blinked rapidly at her, and she removed her hand, the ghost of a giggle at the back of her throat.

"Read the book first, and then I'll introduce you to DiCaprio's Gatsby," she stipulated, returning to the basket of laundry she had dropped on the other side of the couch. Hoisting it up onto her hip, she strode away, rounding the corner to go upstairs. Raising her voice, she called back to him, "And then you can pile on with Steve when it comes to historical inaccuracies in the movie."

Nonplussed, he let her go without a word. Instead, he settled back into the adjacent armchair, thumbing through the pages and letting the crisp paper flutter. In comparison to some novels, the book he was holding was relatively shortly, less than two hundred pages long. As it was, Bucky took his time with the book, moving through the chapters slowly. The sweet rush of memory flowed over him as the city's landscape bloomed in his mind, the trains that traveled to and fro, the imagined valley built from ashes drawing him in. Hot summer days spent in a sickroom, a scrawny blond sixteen-year-old pointing out favorite passages in the pages to him, coughing all the while. He'd taken it home after, read it, and had weird dreams about giant eyes staring down at him, downcast and despondent. Becoming engrossed in the story, and the memories swirling at the periphery, he hardly noticed the time passing. Just as Daisy had come to tea, a ploy set up to allow Gatsby to meet with her again, the sound of a muted groan and the thump of plastic dropped onto something solid filtered in.

Frowning, Bucky got up, determined to discover the source of the noise. Placing the book on the arm of the chair, he tread lightly down the hall, freezing in the arch of the kitchen. Knowing through Steve's insinuations that his wife wasn't exactly a homemaker, he still wasn't altogether shocked to find Holly pouring over a tablet, various ingredients sprawled along the counters and her bent over the center island, staring at the screen. The process for putting together a meal was laid out before her, and she seemed entranced in whatever she was looking at. A recipe, perhaps, he supposed. With the day being what it was for all of them, she must have figured she would give home cooking the edge over takeout or delivery (two more things he wished he could've experienced more in his past). It seemed ambitious, though, to his eyes.

Maybe he could do something about that, he thought, combing the strands of hair that fell over his brow.

"Can I...do you need some help?" he asked, thumbs hooking into his pockets and his feet becoming a fascinating sight. A few seconds passed in which she stared at him, and then she sighed.

"That depends. Can you cook?"

He scratched the back of his neck, a rueful grin sprouting as he looked up. "A few things. Enough to get by."

Vague memories of being taught a few basic recipes by his mother so that he could handle living on his own surfaced, and he had expounded on those during rehab. He needed to know how to take care of himself; at least some of the foods provided these days had written instructions on them. Still, he did remember how to make a couple of simple dishes from scratch.

It was the least he could do, to start earning his place in the house, even if Holly had never breathed a word about doing so.

To his relief, she returned his grin. Tipping a palm forward, she ushered him into the room, indicating he come over and help her look.

"Me, too. Let's see if we can make something a little more than passable for dinner tonight," she said, pushing the tablet over to him and letting him choose where to start first.

 **xXxXxXx**

The sun slid lower in the sky, afternoon light turning to darkness as that part of the world inched closer and closer to winter. The base was quiet, the subdued activity typical for a Saturday milling sparsely from floor to floor. On the upper decks, near the private offices, the elevator at the back of the hall came to a stop. The doors slid open, allowing the five people aboard to disembark. Maria Hill, in a cool blue business dress, led the way, portfolio and tablet in hand. Just behind her came Councilwoman Hawley, swathed in black and her demeanor pleasant. Secretary Ross was hot on her heels, his suit smart and his quick eyes missing nothing. Steve brought up the rear with Tony, casual wear traded for a suit the reasserted his position as the owner of the world's largest tech conglomerate. The end of the official tour was close at hand, and the captain was itching to get it over with. As predicted, Hawley had arrived promptly with the ex-general, determined to go over ever nook and cranny, observing each department and assessing accordingly. While her inquiries tended towards being succinct and polite, Ross's were brusque. He could not afford to probe deeply, and he knew that, but he did ask enough poignant questions to get under the skin of everyone around him. Tony often stepped in to diffuse his remarks, trading wit with the man that bordered more on the barbed end. Little pricks were dug into one another, distracting the fellow so Hawley could interject her own opinions.

It was difficult to attend to Ross. He was hardly likeable on paper. In person, he was much worse. But, Steve reminded himself, he would soon be gone. Unlike the councilwoman, he would not be staying the night. Duties in the capital required his presence, and he had to be back as soon as possible.

"So far, I like what I'm seeing," Hawley expressed when they all paused in their journey, careful delight spreading over her features. From behind her, the Secretary of State snorted, his pale gaze running over the far wall.

"Despite your lack of detainment facilities," Ross asserted, the glaring flaw at the forefront of his mind. It was a point he had labored at sporadically through the tour, mentioning it enough to make them all a little suspicious. Maria Hill tilted her head to the side, spine stiffening.

"Any detainment that is done, is done through the local channels of the country the threat originated from," she explained calmly to the secretary, controlled breath expelled through her nose. "Depending upon the severity of the situation and the risk of the people in question, then they are passed into NATO's capable hands."

Ross darted a look at her, an eyebrow arching at her answer. "Still, as supposed arbiters of justice, you must have some security measures."

Steve shared a lightning-fast glance with Maria, hands clenching on his belt slightly as he stepped in.

"We have a few, sir."

"Ross, I have a feeling you're leading somewhere," Stark cut in, rotating his hand in a motion to get him to hurry along. "Mind getting the pony down the track and to the finish line?"

The ex-general stood up straighter, the closed portfolio he had carried throughout the tour gripped tighter. Shooting a significant look to the councilwoman, she sighed under her breath.

"The secretary has compiled a proposition for the team. However, I insisted that it only be aired while I am present," she announced, not liking being put in that position at all. Nodding to one of the nearby conference rooms, she continued, "If you wish to discuss it, I suggest we move to a more private setting."

As one, they moved into the glass-paneled room, Steve breathing out his groan as he sat down at the head of the table in the center of the room. He dearly wished for a notepad and a pen; doodling would have been a welcome distraction. Instead, Ross waited until they were all seated before launching into his speech. It had become apparent, to him that with the ever-increasing appearances and actions of empowered persons in the world, there would likely be a direct rise in criminal activity. It would not be enough to merely send high-stakes criminals to a normal prison, where they could potentially break out or buy their way out of the system. Those with the highest count of evil deeds, with the longest records, with the threat level great enough to bring about global anarchy, should have a different place to be incarcerated. Sliding printed-off blueprints and a written proposal to the men and women gathered, Ross asserted that such a prison could be made. Indeed, it was nearly completed, but it had yet to be unveiled.

"What we would like from you is to be granted your public endorsement when we do unveil it," he said, revealing his purpose in conveying the information. "And perhaps, together, we could install further safety measures worldwide. Ones that would be beneficial to both the Avengers and the United States."

Swift, steely looks were passed from person to person, Tony's tight-jawed glare meeting Hill's pragmatic glance. Processing his words, comprehending them and letting them sink in, the director of the base's operations swallowed quietly.

"We aren't a private police force, sir. Even if we were willing to cooperate with you in regards to endorsing this prison, you have to understand we wouldn't be working for you, or for the United States government, exclusively," Maria pronounced, observing the slight darkening in the ex-general's gaze as she spoke. "The Avengers were granted immunity to protect the world, not to enforce our personal agenda on it at the behest of a single country. We don't meddle with their structures, and we don't subject anyone to another's meddling."

The statement was confirmed by Hawley's decisive nod, but Ross merely sniffed.

"Huh. Your own proposals to the U.N. suggested otherwise. Or they could be interpreted that way, I mean," he informed them, as though he was simply stating that snow had started to fall outside. A sharp glare was shot so quickly that the captain was still reeling from the burn minutes afterward. "It is a very thin line you're all walking, after all. Not everything you've done—or haven't done—could be seen as pure justice."

"Well, you would know a lot about walking thin lines, wouldn't you, Mr. Secretary?" Tony butted in then, his previous good humor having dissipated. Staring at the conceptual drawings and blueprints, a fire was being stoked deep within him, and he was hard-pressed to keep his breathing even. "Interesting design, this facility has. Seems very... _solid_...like it could contain something of great size and strength. Or someone, I should say."

The announcement dropped like a lead weight, the ring of what wasn't said clanging in all their ears. Taking another long look at his copies, Steve felt shock and horror flood through him as he realized that the billionaire was right. How could he...?

"That is the point. There are greater threats than _regular_ men out there, ones that should be prepared for," Ross insisted, bending at the waist to rest his hands along the glass tabletop.

"Of which we're very aware, sir," Stark ground out, the hold on his temper weakening with every passing second. "Again, something you yourself are familiar with."

The Secretary of State smirked, noting the rise he was getting out of Stark and visibly relishing it.

"I think it's better to be ready when they come and decide to turn on you."

"Assuming that would be the case," Steve retorted, folding his arms over his chest and capturing the fellow's attention.

Stark's dark eyes glittered, though there was no mirth in his gaze or voice. "And you know what happens when you assume, Thaddeus."

Gaze volleying back and forth between the men, Maria rose from her chair, palming her phone and sending a message to her personal assistant to come and escort Ross to his waiting conveyance.

"Thank you for your time today, Secretary Ross. We'll consider the proposal you've put forward and—"

"Ms. Hill, I didn't make the trip all the way out here just for a tour and a chat," Ross barked, interrupting her. She blinked, stunned by the blatant lack of disrespect she was shown. Tony was fully glowering at him now, and Steve was poised on the edge of his seat, ready to spring up and come between them if needed. Sensing the discord he'd wrought, the ex-general took a literal step back from the table, smoothing over his features into a more pliable expression. "I need an answer about the Avengers and their...willingness...to be involved in this project."

The captain glanced from one colleague to the next, and decided to give the answer that the secretary desired to have.

"If you insist on an answer now, sir, then it's going to be a no," he told him, getting out of his chair and pushing the documents he'd been given to the side. Hands going on his hips, Steve shook his head. "Make your announcement, if you want, but you'll be doing it without our approval or endorsement."

"Nor will you find the United Nations to be more amenable, as far as forcing this team's hand," Hawley interjected smoothly, reminding them all about the actual authority she had, as opposed to Ross's, which was nonexistent. The ex-general's gaze narrowed in on her as she stood, pointedly standing near Maria in silent support.

"I never intended to force anybody, Hawley. I did, however, hope that this team would be more sensible," he stated bluntly. A cutting glare darted to the head of the table, though Ross's veneer was stolid. "Or, at least, that their leader would be."

The dig that had been shot at Steve did not faze him in the slightest. Instead, he met the secretary's stare with his icy one, an eyebrow barely inclining and his posture rigid.

"I have a sufficient amount of sense to know a poorly-executed plan when I see one. Sir," he tacked on belatedly. The ex-general took a half-step towards him, the fingers of one hand curling into a fist. Light knocks came at the door, and Maria's assistant (new hire, a young girl fresh out of college but with a will as ironclad as her employer's) entered the room, informing Ross that his jet was waiting for him. Sharp breaths shot out of his nose, and he gave them all a clipped nod as he gathered his portfolio, coming within inches of Steve as though he would shoulder him out of the way. At the last second, he maneuvered around him, promising to call Hawley within the week as he stepped lively. Maria's assistant shot them all a sympathetic glance before she went after him, guiding him in the correct direction to the landing pad upstairs. A brief silence engulfed them all, their steadying breaths echoing around them.

"That bastard," Tony eventually growled, forcefully flattening his palms on the surface of the table.

"Seems like he's moved on from his old projects," Maria posited, glancing at the design sheets the ex-general had left behind.

"For the time being," the captain murmured, the others shooting him grim glances. "Given half a chance, I don't doubt he'd be back trying recreate Erskine's work."

"Or, as he sees it, improving upon it," Tony spat, shoving the papers away in disgust. "That prison has Bruce's name written all over it, no matter how he tries to hide it."

"In spite of the fact that he has immunity, too," Maria concurred, the dread of the statement spreading over them in a terrible wave. "Which is most likely why he wanted our approval; he wanted permission to one day detain him and hole him up there."

Hawley shook her head, the silvered locks of her bobbed cut shifting over her shoulders. "While I don't disagree with the idea of a maximum security facility being built for the greater threats of the world, I cannot condone Ross's methods."

Steve sat back down, pulling a sheet forward and glancing over it again. "Building a prison is one thing, but building it and only being able to use it if we further a particular party's interests? Without any regard to the rest of the world, or to the people who actually need the help? How is that fair, or right?"

"It isn't, but he's not seeing it that way." The billionaire rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in contempt. "His sense of justice and righteousness has been skewed for years; this pretty much confirmed it."

"At minimum, the way he's going about it would actually constitute the endeavor as a misappropriation of funds from this organization," the director of the base's operations muttered, looking again at the numbers configured for 'upkeep' and 'proper donations.'

"He's trying to manipulate us. The budget and the building have already been green-lit, most likely slipped in between other motions and such put forth in the last few years. Something that size can't just pop out of nowhere, and people are going to wonder about it." Stark punctuated his words with a sharp snarl in his voice. It appalled him, galled him to think that Ross would stoop to that level, and then try to play it off as a simple request. "Slapping our approval and name on it, and likely funding its upkeep, would have made it okay with the taxpayers. Without it, it will make the government look suspicious and paranoid. And piss people off for paying for yet another prison."

The captain, staring hard at the oblong structure's layout, at the proposed design and thick, broad walls, exhaled sharply.

"Either way, we can't be behind it. Not with the strings he's attaching to it. You'll make the U.N. aware of all of this, ma'am?" he asked, turning to the councilwoman. The tablet she had carried within her own portfolio had been taken out, and her fingers flew as she compiled the update on the day's events, the information to be forwarded to her colleagues at the United Nations.

"Already in the process, Captain." Hawley cracked a small grin as the others around her nearly sagged in relief. Tapping out a few more words, she fired off the email on her tablet, nodding once to indicate completion. "I believe it would be best, at this point, to call it a day. Ms. Hill, if you could escort me to my quarters, we can discuss the agenda for tomorrow. Thank you, Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark."

With that, the two women withdrew, leaving a disgruntled billionaire and perturbed captain in their wake.

"As if there weren't enough problems to deal with, Ross has to go ahead and pile on," Stark groaned, scrubbing at his face and leaning back in his chair.

Steve's eyes were fixed on the far hall, as if he could see beyond it, to the jet bearing the Secretary of State away.

"We need to keep an eye on him, be prepared for the next thing he tries to pull."

"Roger that," Tony breathed. A final disdainful glance was shot at the blueprints, which he gathered up with alacrity. While he knew some copies would no doubt find their way down to filing and archives, he wanted to keep some for himself. Just in case. "Well, I think I'm gonna go ponder this one for a bit. You gonna stick around?"

A wry half-grin twisted Steve's lips. "Gotta get the team up to speed before heading home.

"Alrighty, then. Better work fast." The men cast dubious glances out the windows, watching the snow drifting lazily to the ground. It was getting to the level of cold where it could start sticking, and that would not be pleasant to work through. "Don't want Wifey to worry about you driving in that snow."

Clapping the captain on the shoulder, he departed, taking himself to the second set of guest rooms available and disappearing from sight. Grumbling aloud, Steve threaded his fingers through his hair, stumbling out of his seat and trotting down to the private rooms. In the central lounge between apartments, he found Natasha and Rhodey—both of whom had wisely steered clear of the whole affair that afternoon—imploring them to get the secondary team in on a conference call and to tap into the private comm channel (Sam, Wanda, and the Vision were off doing strict reconnaissance somewhere in Oregon, oddly enough). The reception from both teams about the information was mixed, but in general, it seemed that the inspections were going well. Hawley would remain for another day or two, and then she'd be off to London. Chapman's team had little time to prepare, but they would do their level best.

When the sun had fully set, and the blackness of night had taken over the sky, Steve finally made his way home, tie loosened in the truck as he drove and the weight on his shoulders lifting little by little. Turning up his driveway, he could see the glow of the lights on the ground floor, and he smiled to himself. God, he was glad to be there. Parking the truck, he palmed his shield as he circled around to the back door, code punched in and access granted. Stepping into the warmth of the kitchen, he glanced around, almost startled by the clearing throat that interrupted his train of thought. Swallowing down a derisive laugh at himself, he met the gaze of his old friend as he sat at the table.

Bucky was there, really was there, and he was glad for it.

"Oh, hey," he greeted him, smile widening slightly. Bucky looked well, he was relieved to note. Well, and if not happy, at least not upset. A book was spread open before him, another one perched to his right. An abandoned plate of half-eaten food was near at hand, in case he wished to partake once more. And he was alone. Steve's brow furrowed as he noticed that, resting his shield against a lower cabinet.

"Hi," Bucky returned, his expression placid. Deep down, he was pleased to be there, but he was still wary of being too open about it. Too afraid that it would vanish in an instant, that he would find himself in some hovel, confused and terrified about himself and the world around him. Catching Steve's quick glances around and away from him, he figured he could guess where his mind had wandered. "She's upstairs. Said she felt tired, and she was going to reclaim her _Return of the King_ to wind down, whatever that means. I assumed it was a book."

"You assumed right," Steve said, his musings about Holly assuaged as he grumbled under his breath. "Damn, I was in the middle of that, too."

"She mentioned that. Apparently, three months is long enough for being the middle of it." Now Bucky smirked at him, gaze latching back onto the book. "Food's in the icebox if you're hungry."

The stomach rumbling almost on cue nearly made them both laugh, and Steve adjourned to the refrigerator, intent on getting something to eat. Though disappointed in himself for not returning in time with them, he was glad to find that they'd left enough for him. Evidently, it was more than enough; there leftovers specifically for him, and then others for the next day. Possibly for lunches on Monday, too.

"That is...a mix," he mumbled, opening the containers and peering at the contents. Spaghetti with meat sauce in one, grilled chicken and potatoes in the other. Tinfoil-wrapped garlic bread was unwrapped alongside it all. There plenty left of each in the fridge in other containers, but he hadn't expected that much to be whipped up and set aside.

Bucky looked up again as Steve plated his finds, and snickered. "We tried."

The captain blinked at that, fingers stilled around the handle of the microwave. "You cooked, too?"

"Figured I should do something to help out," his friend replied, shoulders rising up again before his concentration returned to the book in front of him. They couldn't agree on one or the other, so they'd made multiple options. Well, that explained the varying dinner choices, he mused privately, setting the timer as best he could and starting the microwave. In minutes flat, he was at the table and eating, nearly inhaling the mixed meal before him. Risking a glance up, the captain swirled his fork around, lulled into an old memory.

"Kinda reminds me of the time when you tried to make our C rations into something beyond edible," he remarked, testing the waters to see Bucky's progress for himself. Both he and his therapist had seen marked improvement in his recollections, but he honestly wondered how far he had gone.

Bucky cracked a small grin, and looked up. "With those spices I nicked from Italy. Is it really that bad?"

Immediately, Steve shook his head. "No, this time the experiment went right, as opposed to then."

"Didn't realize there was such a thing as too much oregano."

"There is for meat and potato hash. At least it made mealtime interesting that day."

It had, truly; Falsworth had sworn off Italian spices after that, let alone oregano (the herbs mixed in were incredibly overpowering) and Dugan had called him a baby before scarfing down his abandoned fare. The two men chuckled at the memory, falling silent again shortly afterward. Bite after bite, followed by turning pages as they went at their separate endeavors. It wasn't long before Steve was staring at him again, unsure of where to pick up the thread. Scraping up the last of his potatoes, he decided to just try.

"You okay, Buck?" he asked, the question more loaded than it seemed on the surface. Carefully, Barnes closed the book before him, resting his hands on the table before looking him in the eye.

"Not bad, considering," he replied slowly, a rueful glint in his gaze and his metal hand passing through his hair. Expelling the truth was something he was still adjusting to, even after all that time. Still, he knew it would do no good to lie. "After six months, I'm still not used to the quiet."

Steve snorted. "I hear ya."

Bucky nodded, his lips thinning. "Fury wants me back in training again in the next few days. As per the agreement."

"Don't feel obliged to, if you're not ready," the captain countered, not willing to push on the issue. The director may feel that Barnes was ready to begin engaging again, but he would not allow him to be forced into service if he did not feel up for it. It was a major commitment, which they all knew, and Bucky would not be committed if it was not his will.

A slow breath poured out of his friend's mouth. "I am, though."

"Getting antsy?"

"I left antsy behind in July, trust me," Barnes scoffed, rolling his shoulders back. "I want...I wanna do this."

A few minutes' silence, the clock on the inner wall ticking away the seconds, and then Rogers dipped his chin.

"Okay. Well, we'll bring you in on Monday or Tuesday, get you acquainted with everything." A sly glance was shot at his friend, and he smirked. "Pretty sure Nat's looking forward to putting you through the paces."

An unbidden smile decorated Bucky's face as he laughed derisively, scrubbing a hand at his five o'clock shadow.

"Any chance she might go easy on me?"

The deadpan look Steve shot him spoke volumes, though he did deign to give a verbal response. "Less than a snowball's in hell."

That made Barnes laugh again, and he leaned back in his chair. "Good to know."

Nodding, Steve scraped up the last of his food, swallowing quickly and picking up his plate. Taking his friend's deserted one, he scraped the leftover bites into a container, marking it with a note and putting it away. Dishes rinsed and placed in the dishwasher that time, he stretched his arms above his head, the heaviness of the day's events wearing off. Casting another look at Bucky, he hooked his thumb in the direction of the living room.

"Well, I've got some stuff on the queue I want to catch up on. Want to join me?"

Looking from his book back to him, Bucky made his decision quickly. "...Sure."

Accompanying Steve into the living room, Bucky took the chair again, with the captain taking the couch. Manipulating the controls, he managed to get the television on, choosing an episode of a series he'd been picking through slowly. Bucky was a little concerned about not understanding the premise, given that he'd never seen the show before. However, Steve's brief summation about the times and trials of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo was all he really needed. It was simple, but it allowed the story to go almost literally anywhere, keeping it open and funny. Partway through the second episode they were watching, Holly crept downstairs, going to Steve with a kiss and curling up beside him on the couch. Conversation ebbed and flowed, with the captain expounding on the decent impression the councilwoman had thus far, and his wife inquiring after a retired general. Soon enough, they were treated to an earful about the general in question, and Bucky had to hold back a snicker. The man sounded like a hard case, and he was relieved to not have gone anywhere near that. As the hours slid by, the young woman on the couch drifted off again, head resting in her husband's lap and his fingers tenderly combing through her hair. It was something the ex-assassin had never thought he'd see, his erstwhile best friend being sweet with a gal. Part of him blearily recalled wanting Steve to find happiness with a dame, but it was still something he was not used to seeing. That, and the friendliness. Undeserving of it as he was, he still was so grateful for that.

Shaking his head, his mind turned to other thoughts, the fingers of his metal hand tapping lightly on the arm of the chair.

"Thanks," he murmured quietly, after the silence between them had settled. Glancing over, he caught the flicker of confusion in Steve's eyes. Clearing his throat, he elaborated, "For letting me stay. And, well, yeah."

A slow grin curved Steve's mouth, and he merely canted his head.

"You're welcome, Bucky," he replied, dipping his chin and letting seriousness bleed into his expression. "Really. You are welcome here."

His friend's gaze flicked down to Holly, sleeping soundly and ignorant of their speech. "More or less."

Another episode passed before Bucky declared that he would take himself to his room. Rising from the chair, he was preempted from going as Steve rustled around in his jacket pocket, the article slung over the back of the couch long ago. Fishing for a few seconds, he removed a bent envelope, the looping handwriting familiar as he peered at it.

"Natasha gave me this to pass off to you," Steve explained, watching him as he turned the paper over in his hand. "She was gonna mail it, but figured it would be better to save on postage."

"Yeah. No idea how she'd ever be able to recover that fifty cents," Bucky riposted, lips twisting.

"Forty-nine," the captain corrected. Blinking, he looked at him, eyebrows drawn together in befuddlement. "Were you being ironic or unironic?"

"I...honestly don't know," his friend murmured, thinking back on his words and having no answer.

"Me, either," Steve muttered, with a slightly sad tone. The relevancy of prices for things as mundane as postage stamps was silly at times, and they both realized it. Shrugging it off, he watched Barnes move off, detouring to the kitchen to retrieve his borrowed books before going downstairs. "G'night, Buck."

"'Night, Steve," was the call back, the brunet man clomping down the steps, two sets of treasures in hand and his own space to indulge in them. Sprawling out on his bed, he unfolded his letter, losing himself in the words of another friendly soul as the night stretched on.

* * *

 **A/N:** Another long chapter...I need to learn self-control. I'm so sorry, to those irritated by that. These chapters are getting crazy. Pretty sure the next one won't be as long. Maybe.

If there's anybody out there who likes General/Secretary Ross, sorry for the bashing. I cannot like the man. Not one bit. I've always thought him to be an arrogant, hypocritical ass, and I cannot portray him otherwise. I've liked some true villains better than I've liked him. That being said, he is difficult to write, and I hope I did okay with him. To me, the Raft is the first step in actively going after Bruce, but Ross can't just sell it based on that. Not after everything. So he tries for Avenger endorsement. And fails, but still, he tries.

On a more positive note, Bucky's officially out of rehab. That's good news, right? And if anybody's curious about the actual location of the base/Steve and Holly's house, I've reckoned those to be somewhere between Saratoga Springs, Gloversville, and Queensbury, NY. Rough guesstimate. Might not make the geography 100% accurate, but I'm trying. Also, stamp decrease did not happen until 2016, so the price is more or less accurate.

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references ( _The Great Gatsby_ —both book and Baz Luhrmann film— _I Love Lucy_ , _The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_ ).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	8. Chapter 8

Thanksgiving. Bucky mulled over the word, the name of the holiday, as he sank down on the weight bench in the basement.

Nearly two weeks had passed since he'd been brought to live with Steve and Holly, two weeks since he'd evacuated the rehabilitation facility and reentered the world as a free man. While the blackness of his dreams and the haunting nature of his memories did not make him think he had much to be thankful for, at least he knew he had a safe place to stay. For the time being.

A safe place, staying with good people (with a friend, no less), and something to occupy his time. While he was not yet on the payroll, he was unofficially starting his work for SHIELD, his level of training under evaluation and his mental capacities being examined in the pursuit. Steve and Fury had both wanted him to get up to speed in regards to preparations for field work, and he was doggedly pursuing them. His presence at the base, while causing a stir, did not do much more than ripple the surface. His identity, such as it was, was kept a secret from the whole of the base for the time being. Only the team knew who he was, and that was how it had to be until he'd completed his trials. There was some reticence from the team about his granted access to the facility (Rhodey had voiced his concerns, and Wanda had flinched when she'd gotten close to him, muttering about how there was such a thing as 'too much red').

Even despite the strange looks, the sidelong glances, the askance lobbed at him from day to day, Bucky was grateful for it. It all meant that he had a chance, was pursuing his chance to right his wrongs. No matter how much they ate away at him, burrowing deep in his mind even when he was gathered with the others at the table, the holiday meal hosted by the captain and his wife that year. Most of the food had been store-bought, but it went down well enough. Mostly, he'd been quiet as Wanda asked about traditional holiday observances, having grown up outside of the states, and with Steve telling stories about the way he and his mom had passed the day. Holly spoke about her dad's side of the family taking over her parents' house, large and unruly as they were (she missed them, that much was clear; taking a trip to see them could not be justified, Steve had told him, sad to see his girl unhappy). Natasha spoke of a friend's young kids climbing all over her, begging her to act like a Macy's float for them, with Steve and Nick Fury smirking at the story in a way that no one else was. And speaking of the director, he had rounded out the party, eating his fill and spouting off every now and again with glances cut in his direction every so often.

The clamor in his mind, and the voices of the others, became too much to bear, eventually, and once the meal was more or less finished, he escaped into the basement. Steve's gaze tracked him as he went, but he did not stop him. He needed a respite, needed to collect himself. Carding a hand through his hair, the swept-over strands knocked loose from the product holding them in place, he took deep breaths and reminded himself that he was supposed to be thankful for all that. That he _was_ thankful, but he was just...

"Overwhelmed by the family togetherness?" a voice came from the stairwell, and he glanced up. A partial grin curved his lips as he shrugged his shoulders. Studying the toe of his boot, he listened as Natasha Romanoff came gliding across the floor to him. As her feet came into view, he snickered; her stately attire for the evening was marred by the fuzzy, warm socks she was wearing. Pink and purple stripes wrapped around her feet, disappearing into the hem of her black slacks; her boots had evidently been put to the side. Hardly something one would expect in the wardrobe of a woman of her caliber, but there she was, owning them like they were just as neat as the rest of her attire.

Her interruption of his thoughts was not unwelcome; indeed, her company was preferred over stewing in silence, given how dark his thoughts turned in that silence. She was definitely better than others. If Sam had meandered down there to find him, he wasn't so sure he would tolerate it as well. Not that he had anything against Wilson, per se, but the two men did find themselves at odds. (He was more sardonic than he cared for, which was a surprise.) In any case, Natasha could intrude, and he wasn't bothered by it. Not too much.

There was little that she'd done in the last couple of weeks that bothered him about her. Given her reputation, and her personality, he supposed that some would find her off-putting, or too incisive for comfort, but he didn't have a problem with it. At least she treated him as more than some random entity that showed up at the base with Steve.

Scooting over as much as he could on the bench, he waited until she'd perched beside him before answering.

"Something like that," he muttered, shaking his head. Letting out a sigh, he scratched at the curve of his jaw. "I haven't celebrated...well, any holiday for seventy-odd years. It's like...I know what it's supposed to be like, but I'm—"

"Not really part of it?" she filled in, tipping her head to the side as he nodded. Cupping a hand in the air, she continued, "It's understandable; you haven't been here long enough for it to be even remotely at ease."

"I just...I guess I don't understand what I've done to deserve it. Honestly, I'm the type of person you're supposed to be hunting down, not breaking bread with."

"So am I," she nearly whispered back, the truth of the statement in her eyes. A truth he'd often seen reflected at himself in the mirror. She flicked her gaze up to the ceiling, up one floor where the others were congregating and conversation milled. "But they have let me in. They'll let you in, too. Well, some of them."

A dark brow arched at her. "Some of them?"

"Our party is missing a member or two this year, as you may have noticed. A couple are off in their own worlds, and some are...not secure with your presence just yet."

"Like Tony Stark." The name left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he stared down at his hands. His metal fist knotted into the material of his pants briefly before he stood. Walking over to the punching bag, he gave it a light push, letting it swing back and forth. The creak of the chain as it slid on the hook echoed in the empty silence, the clamor of sound eating away at him. In place of the screams that were, for the moment, hushed. Looking back at Natasha, he held her bright gaze, his body stiffening. "He knows?"

Her head bobbed, and she slunk off the bench to stare at the weight set. Running a finger along one of the barbells, she exhaled softly.

"When you showed up in May, he had questions about the sudden survival and reappearance of yet another super soldier." She smiled wryly at him, not surprised when he did not return it. Resting against the wall, Natasha's lids lowered. "He knows what Rhodey's told him, and what Fury had to report. Steve might have said a thing or two. He knows what you were capable of; I don't think he's quite comfortable with you, yet."

That was putting it mildly. If the final battle over Sokovia and the subsequent relief efforts hadn't occupied his attention, Tony would definitely have voiced his concerns about another aged, old man from the 1940's taking up defense against the evils of the world. As it was, he maintained his distance as much as he could, the two men barely interacting save for the fact that they both showed up to meetings headed by Nick. And when Steve had confided to them all about bringing Bucky in to find him placement somewhere in the organization, Stark had a few opinions to share. However, sharp looks from Natasha had stemmed those, given how a lot of what he had said could have applied to her as well. 'Not comfortable' was only somewhat accurate.

Bucky blinked at her words, bringing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

"But does he _know_?" he asked emphatically, striking the punching bag when she did not answer. Off her quirked brow, he rolled his eyes. She was not ignorant of what he meant; he did not appreciate her playing the fool. Or, as he realized, forcing him to own up to the horrible truth. "Know what I...?"

Minutely, she shook her head, forbidding him from continuing. It was not the best time or place for him to confess to the murder of Howard Stark, not even in the safety of the Rogers home. Arms crossed over her chest as she mulled over the unspoken truth. In his letters, Barnes had alluded to his contracted kills, the hits that HYDRA forced him to perform. Where once the faces in his memory and dreams were nameless, he found that a few could not be called as such anymore. He'd taken to writing down every single incident he could recall, every death in detail so that he would never forget. And when he shared with her, she knew she would not be able to forget, either. She would not let their memories die, not let him release them from his soul. Nat should have refused him, but by that point she was too far gone.

Too far gone, and too mired in blood and death to really make a judgment against him.

"That, I don't think so. When the SHIELD intel was dumped, there a few contracts hidden within from HYDRA. I know the one about Howard was included; I made sure he found it." Natasha felt Bucky's gaze bore into her then, at her tacit insistence that Stark know that much. After Zola had taunted Steve with that information, had rubbed in her face the lack of ability SHIELD had shown in not being able to prevent it, she had to tell him. She wasn't about to apologize for it. Stepping away from the wall, she walked over to him, palm out to stop the bag from from swinging. "He suspects foul play now, but I doubt he has concrete evidence, since none was in those files. Hard to come up with any on a shut case over twenty years old."

"I see."

Minutes crawled by, man and woman drowning in the silence between them even as the rumble and creak of the people above them went on. Slowly, carefully, Natasha crept closer to him, laying her palm upon his bicep. Upon his left arm, the warmth of her fingers bled into the material of the shirt he was wearing, sinking into the cold metal plating. The touch registered in his brain, compelling him to meet her eyeline.

"You're going to tell him, aren't you?" There was no other reason for him to bring up the subject of Stark, otherwise. She'd known that much, and her eyebrows rose. The decision was not an easy one to make; Bucky would be surrendering all that he had worked for over the last year and a half, would lose everything he had gained. Natasha did not know if it was folly-driven integrity that was forcing his hand, or a stupid sense of righteousness, but she bit her tongue before those thoughts were voiced.

"...I have to," Bucky confirmed aloud, the sharp, broken edge in his tone slipping from his tight hold. As much as he had to be thankful for, there was still too much to atone for. He could not remain silent, not when he was living and working at the expense of a man whose life he had altered terribly. He didn't deserve to be left in the dark, not any longer. The clicking fingers of his prosthetic hand tapped against his leg, his eyes dropping to the ground. "As soon as possible. I heard that he is coming up after the holiday."

That was correct. Tony Stark had gone on a flying trip to the home offices of Stark Industries, planning on staying through Thanksgiving until the following week. Once he made it back East, he intended to come up and look at the progress made for his private laboratory and suit wing. Wednesday was the earliest conjecture date, and when it came to his suits, he actually preferred to be on time. Less than a week left, then. Natasha felt a sick feeling slide in her gut, one which she could not allow herself to name, let alone register. Instead, she glossed over it, tipping her chin up and giving his arm a pat or two before letting her hand fall away.

"In which case, we better go have a drink," she pronounced, hooking a thumb at the stairs. Invitation issued, she made her way to the steps, throwing over her shoulder, "I might not get the chance to enjoy your company after you do."

Despite not having a reason to do so, despite knowing she had spoken sarcastically, he grinned at the offer and plodded after her.

"Might be the last time I get to spend with a..." Bucky started to concur before he snapped his mouth shut, his tongue threatening to run away from him without permission. Heat flooded into his face as Natasha stopped on the stairs, leaning over the banister and smirking at him.

"Yeah?" she asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. Against his better judgment, his gaze lingered over it, over her face and the curl of her fiery hair, for longer than he supposed was appropriate. Scratching the back of his neck, he glanced to the side. The end of the sentence was there, hovering between them, unbidden and unwanted (something inside him lurched in protest against that tendril of thought, but he refused to pay it any mind).

"...With you," he supplied, meeting her bright blue eyes, tilting his head and the loosened strands of his hair falling across his brow. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in the sight of him. Idly, she wondered if he purposefully emitted that charm, or if it had been so much a part of him that not even HYDRA could knock it out. It did not seem feigned; she knew when appeal was used as a tactic, as a weapon, and given his state at the moment, he couldn't fake something like that.

"Right," Natasha replied, smirk gentling into a genuine grin. Leaving it at that, the pair climbed back upstairs, rounding the bend swiftly (Holly had spotted them, flicking her gaze between them and letting a smug look play over her features as she turned her attention back to the television). Both of them indulged from the closest bottle of wine, a red that was somehow untouched. Glasses clinked a salute, and they spoke on and off between sips about the training program he was being put through, her plans about incorporating his preferred weapons back into the mix. The chatter from the living room masked their conversation, and they had their brief moment of peace together.

 **xXxXxXx**

Monday the thirtieth came, and with it came Helen Cho, stumbling up to the infirmary level of the Avengers base with a coffee mug in hand and a full load of work to do that day. Work that had to wait, at least, until she finished with her clinic duties. A new wave of physical examinations were scheduled for the next few days, and they needed all hands on deck for it. Passing the receptionist, she managed a decent hello as she picked up the cases she would be working with that day. Her first patient had already arrived, scheduled for the earliest possible slot before the work day began for her. Shaking her head, Cho's eyes widened in recognition when she glanced over the name. Taking her things off to the private office at the back, she read through the filled-out information sheet that the patient had gone through. Everything seemed in order as she exchanged her winter coat for the lab coat she'd been commissioned for her tasks, her dark hair in its utilitarian bun and the rest of her outfit lying straight. Tools of the trade were slipped into her pockets as she went, one last swig of coffee bolstering her before she gathered up her charts and went to Exam Room #2.

"Hello, Holly," Helen greeted her pleasantly enough, noting the captain's wife had already change into the standard gown. Besides occasionally passing in the halls, the two women were not close and had not spoken much to one another since the move to the base. In the early months, Cho was occupied with moving her operations and research from overseas, her time spent rebuilding the Cradle that had been unfortunately destroyed with the birth of the Vision. Having relocated permanently to the base, she spent many hours devoted to the discoveries to be found in the Vision, studying him whenever he had a free moment to allow her access. Not only that, she was also one of the top physicians there, and personally treated many of the agents as well as the Avengers when they needed to be patched up. As Holly was neither an active agent nor an Avenger, she rarely came anywhere near the infirmary, and so they had been kept to their separate worlds. Well, except for when the captain came in banged up and bleeding; then she saw the girl flitting about, the stubborn strength she'd quietly employed hovering around her as she waited to hear about his condition. When the other woman did no more than mumble a return greeting, she sighed inwardly and took a look at the information form copies that Holly had filled out. "I suppose you're one of the stragglers, huh?"

"Yeah, I, I guess," Holly replied, canting her head to the side. "I thought the physical was optional for office personnel, but, well..."

Cho dipped her chin. While the agents were required to have a physical examination at the beginning of their employment, the office workers were not held to the same stringent demands. It was, however, a strong encouragement, and some, like Holly, had chosen to suck it up and get it over with.

"It is, but it's also recommended for the betterment of your health to at least have a regular check-up. Which is what I'm assuming you're doing here," she reminded her in a helpful tone, snickering silently when Holly wrapped her arms around her middle and groaned.

"Uh-huh." Clearly the lecture was one she'd head before, and most likely did not want to hear again.

"You're here now, though. We'll make it as relatively painless as possible," the doctor promised her, putting down the charts and withdrawing the stethoscope from her pocket, looping it around her neck.

"O-okay," the younger woman agreed, shifting around nervously on the table top. Rising when Cho gestured for her to do so, she let her fingers trail through the air. "Sorry about making you do this. I'm sure there's a hundred other things you need to do."

"I'm just like anyone else around here," Helen responded amicably, peeking at her body to inspect it for any unusual growths or marks. Finding none, she continued, "I have the training and the medical license, I volunteered to do clinic duties. Although, I did hear that you requested me specifically."

Her glance would have appeared casual, were there not a hard edge to it. In general, doctors at the base were assigned at random to patients; specific referrals were made on a case-by-case basis. She had to wonder what case it was that made Holly choose her, other than the fact that both women had survived a robot attack at the Avengers Tower.

"I know you," Holly told her, hopping back onto the table and lying down. As Cho began to feel along her abdomen to check out the lay of her organs, she bit her lip momentarily. "And...well...something's, something's off with me. I trust you to be with me on it."

The examination paused, and Helen shot her a quick glance. The paperwork hadn't mentioned any abnormal symptoms, but perhaps she was embarrassed to speak of them. Or perhaps she thought it would be cautious not to do so. She had nothing to fear, due to doctor-patient confidentiality, so Cho was suspicious.

"Alright. Just relax, and we'll get to it," Helen murmured smoothly, a hiss drawn out of Holly when she pressed against her lower abdomen. Making a mental note of that, she left off there, moving on to listen to Holly's lungs and heartbeat. Percussion tapped against her body showed that no fluid had accumulated where it was not meant to be. Blood pressure, when measured, appeared to be a little higher than normal, but that was attributed to the obvious nervousness in the patient's demeanor. After taking her through a few breathing exercises, the BP had settled in back into the healthy range. Height was recorded once again, and weight was tallied up (the stress of the early summer months had made her lose several pounds, but it appeared that she'd gained those back fairly quickly, putting her slightly over where she should have been). Finishing with that, the doctor allowed her patient to step behind the curtain to change back into her normal clothes again, motioning for her to take a seat when ready.

"Well, you're checking out healthy, but you said earlier that you don't feel quite right," Helen returned to the earlier point of conversation. Sitting herself down on a rolling stool, she pushed her way over to the small counter nearby, a pen and pad of paper pulled out of her pocket. Normally, she'd use her digital tablet, but she'd left it behind in her office. Writing utensil poised, she motioned for the other woman to speak. "Why don't you go ahead and describe what's been going on?"

"Well, I'm more tired than usual. My sense of smell has kinda gone into overdrive; coworker had tuna a few days ago for lunch and I almost puked when it hit me. And these puppies are not feeling the greatest," Holly reported, motioning offhandedly to her chest. That had been an unpleasant development, and a very recent one at that. Even an accidental brush drew out hisses of pain. "Frankly, you're lucky I came in with a bra at all."

Helen's eyebrows rose a fraction, and her smirk returned in a brief flash. At least she could appreciate the attempt at levity. Running her gaze over her patient again, the doctor jotted down the symptoms described on her notepad, theorizing her gathering thoughts into a possible diagnosis.

"Anything else?" she inquired, flicking a glance up at her again. Holly swallowed hard, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

"Yeah. I suppose it's the most glaringly obvious one," she said, a weak smile settling on her lips. Her cycle was like clockwork, one of the few things in life she could depend on happening. Every month, it came, she endured—and dear Lord, some days it was like running an endurance race of mood swings and pain—and it was over.

That time, it hadn't come. That time, she was late. Brief spotting, cramps, and then…nothing. It was different; it was too short, and so very unlike what she was used to. The clockwork had been disrupted. Not to mention the side-eye Wanda had given her at Thanksgiving dinner, the drop of her gaze to her belly and the sparkle in her irises. As if she knew. And maybe...maybe she did.

"We can do the blood test, but it sounds pretty certain to my ears," Cho was saying, pushing through her private thoughts. The older woman peered at her closely, noting her noncommittal nod. "Have you not taken an at-home—"

"I need the blood test," Holly interrupted, stern certainty in her voice. The look in her eyes was unwavering, and her hands balled up in the ends of her sleeves. "I do. I need to see it for myself."

She did need it. She'd already been to the pharmacy in town, twice, frozen in the correct aisle and staring at the tests for sale. Twice she'd gone in the last week, and twice she'd walked away empty-handed, either convincing herself she was mistaken or unable to handle doing it. With her physical appointment scheduled for that Monday, she reasoned there would be definitive proof to be had there. There was always a chance of the at-home test being wrong, and if there actually was something else wrong with her, the blood test would be able to negate that particular suspicion.

Another long look passed between her and Helen, with the doctor finally nodding. A sting and pull later, her blood had been drawn and sent for analysis, and she was rubbing at the bandage gracing her forearm. With it being so early in the week, Helen was confident that she would be able to get first crack at the centrifuge and get the results more quickly than expected. Dismissed for the time being, Holly plodded her way back downstairs to her office. She still had more sorting to do in regards the Strucker files, and she lost herself in the task. It was nearing completion, and she was glad for that. The less time she spent thinking about him, and the days of Ultron that followed, the better. The project had already taken over a month's time, and she was starting to hate it even more so than she had before. Little was said to her coworkers, though Todd did remark on how pale she seemed when he stopped by to collect finished folders for drop-off. He was given a brush-off, an excuse dripping from her lips that had him shooting her a look over the rims of his glasses. Still, he did not push it, and left her in relative peace to work.

A message was left on her phone near the end of the day to return to the infirmary at her earliest convenience, and after a nerve-wracking forty-five minutes, she quickly shut down her computer, exiting the office as fast as she could. Going back upstairs, she was conducted straight back to the private examination room. Depositing her jacket and bag on the floor, she perched on the table again, swinging her legs and the paper sheet beneath her crinkling. Within a few minutes, Helen came into the room, business-like in her demeanor as she shut the door firmly behind her and looked down at the charts in hand. Her dark gaze raked over Holly, and she felt another nervous twist in her gut.

"The results came back, and well, it should come as no surprise that you were right." At that, Helen finally cracked, and she allowed a small grin to come through. "Congratulations, Holly."

Staring at the print-out she was handed, Holly leaned all the way back on the examination table. Once fully reclined, she rested the sheet of paper on her stomach, Helen coming up to explain the heightened levels of hormones listed and how they were picked up to confirm the pregnancy.

Confirm the pregnancy. She was pregnant. Hands passed over her face, and the constriction around her stomach and heart had loosened. She knew the truth. She knew the truth, and she was...

Happy, her mind told her as she brought her hands away. Anxious, nervous, but ultimately, she was pleased. A tiny, delighted smile sprang onto her lips. It made her happy to know, to be. It just took a moment to sink in, to realize it.

"Thank you," she said eventually, sitting back up and staring at the paper again. A rueful grin spread across her lips, and a shoulder raised. "I'm just…a little stunned. This wasn't planned, not for right now. And we've always used condoms without this happening."

"It's not common, but it is possible to get pregnant while using protection," Helen informed her, cupping a hand in the air. A corner of her mouth lifted. "Welcome to the Eighteen-Percent Club."

Holly snorted at that. "Do I get a jacket for joining?"

"You do get something, that's for sure. It's on back order for nine months, though," the doctor replied, a full smirk coming onto her lips. The younger woman hooked a thumb's-up into the air, and giggled.

"Fantastic."

From there, the two women went on to discuss options. A few basic ground rules were laid out in the meantime, certain things to avoid now that her pregnancy was a sure thing. That Holly would need a more thorough examination with an obstetrician was clear, and Helen had a few people in mind in the area that she could go to. The younger woman had yet to find a permanent doctor anyway, something she admitted to overlooking due to the stresses of a new job and a new home (not to mention having a husband who insisted on throwing himself headlong into danger, but Cho wasn't going to point that out). It had been wise to reach out to the local medical communities and establish relations, as one could never know if the base could get swamped with work, or that they would need additional help outside of the facility. One doctor in Saratoga Springs came to mind (thankfully one who would be covered by her insurance), and she made Holly take down her name and number. Offering to set up the referral herself, a question that had been sitting at the back of Helen's mind resurfaced, one that she aired once the call was made and the appointment was set up for the coming Saturday.

"Is this why you requested me?" she wondered, a finger circling in the air and pointing to her patient's abdomen. Lowering her gaze, Holly's fingers began to fidget again, and she set aside her pen and paper to lace them together. Leaning forward, she placed her elbows on her knees, collecting her musings.

"I trust you," she reiterated, seriousness invading her tone. "I knew that if this proved to be what I thought it was, that it should be you confirming it. This baby...is partially Steve. That comes with implications, which I think we're all aware of." Holly directed a wry glance at Cho, both of them frowning at the pronouncement. "I know so many people are going to treat it like a study or an experiment, but...you know us. You won't treat us that way. If the serum has any effects on the baby, or me, I want, I want you to be the one to know about them. Even though I think it's unlikely that would be the case." Helen Cho was a brilliant doctor, one of the best medical minds in the world. Genetics was her primary field of study. If anybody had a shot at figuring out how to keep a super soldier's child alive in highly strange circumstances, she would be their best bet, and Holly knew that. "I think you'd be able to help us if it did."

Several long seconds of silence passed between them, and then Helen blew out a short breath.

"I...very well. I'm still going to recommend you keep the appointment with the OB in Saratoga Springs; I know her personally, and she would work well with you, I think. But I will keep an eye on the situation. If you begin to experience any abnormal symptoms—and I mean, extremely abnormal—come to me immediately," she stated firmly, taking the paper from Holly and scrawling out her personal cell phone number. She was entirely sincere about that requirement; it would be best to catch anything untoward early on, no matter what time or where she was. "Since we don't know how deep the super soldier serum would penetrate, we should keep that channel open. Just in case; you may be right in that it may come to nothing, and you'll have a somewhat typical pregnancy."

Jumping off the table, Holly impulsively hugged Helen, the older woman giving her a few awkward pats on the back before she let go. Fetching up her results, as well as a few pregnancy health pamphlets, she stuffed all into her bag, the relief of confirmation flooding through her and overriding all else.

"Thank you so much, Helen," she blurted as she threw on her coat, pleasant farewells exchanged. The trip to the garage had passed in a haze, the young woman wrapped up in the new developments and thoughts as she traversed back to her home. Now that she knew, she had to think of a way to tell Steve. How would he take the news? Would he even be home when she got back? She hadn't thought to check to see if his truck was still there when she'd left, and she cursed herself for her lack of observation. She wasn't sure how long she could hold out, didn't know how long she could wait to tell him about it. Turning up her own drive, her headlights gleamed as she turned into the garage, shining off the body of the black Dodge. Shockingly, Steve had actually beaten her home for once. Typing in her codes and sweeping through the kitchen, she could see that he had, apparently, been there for awhile. The television played in the background while he slept, ignorant of her arrival. For a moment, she looked down at him, pausing at the end of the couch and letting the pads of her fingers trip along the back. Thankfully, he hadn't come straight home in his uniform and crashed out (an occurrence that wasn't as uncommon as she wished it to be). He'd swapped it for a dark gray shirt and the jeans with paint splotches—both from his art projects and from the days they'd spent repainting the yellow bedroom to a neutral color. His larger frame was stretched across the sofa, head nestled into a few throw pillows, another trapped in his arms. Sleeping peacefully, he was allowed another minute or two of comfort by her.

Then she had enough of that and circled around to the other end of the couch, bending and tapping on the end of his nose repeatedly to rouse him (she never claimed to have endless patience). Shifting against the cushions, he grumbled under his breath, rolling and trying to evade her hand. Swatting blindly, he groaned as he scrubbed at his face, and she chuckled. Folding her arms and leaning against the back of the sofa, she waited as he regained his bearings.

Glimpsing her out the corner of his eye, he smirked and snorted. "Enjoying the view, doll?"

"Well, you are quite pretty, Steve," she remarked drily, coat taken off and draped over the end of the couch as she winked at him. Grinning back, he sat up fully, tossing the pillow he'd been cuddling away and opening his arms to her.

"C'mere," he beckoned, ignoring her initial pestering. Letting her bag settle on the floor, she sat down beside him, enfolded into his embrace. The strength and the security of his hold made her melt, but he was pulling back soon enough, looking her over. "How did—"

"Is James here?" she spoke over him, shifting her gaze around the space. She wouldn't go so far as to say Bucky and Steve were attached at the hip now that the former assassin had taken up residence with them, but she could often find the pair of them when she came home, reminiscing about the past or attempting to navigate a new device they'd brought back from the base, the technology of the day baffling them at turns. Due to his extractions as the Winter Soldier, Bucky generally had a better handle on those sorts of things, but neither of them were experts. However, it did not appear that he was even in the house.

"No, he's at the base still. Nat's got some stuff for him to go over, more training," he responded, watching the brightening of her eyes. The details were not explained to him, beyond the fact that Nat was sure there were a few techniques he could improve upon with her help. Steve had just given them both a long look and a shrug at that, stipulating that they not wear themselves out too much before exercises the next morning. "He's probably not going to be dropped off until late. We've got the house all to ourselves."

His grip around her tightened, and a suggestive glint danced across his irises. Falling prey to it, as she had so many times before, she pressed her advantage, melding her mouth to his. Perhaps she could soften the impact of her news that way, she mused, her body flush against his as they leaned into the cushions.

"Then we should make good use of the time, right?" Holly breathed between kisses, a sharp hitch in her voice as he trailed his lips across her cheek to the tender spot below her ear. "Because, I mean, chances like this are few and far between, especially now. Even better that you're not roughed up or ready to run."

Pulling away from her then, Steve placed a hand at the crook of her neck, holding her back slightly. His expression had flattened somewhat, and a blond eyebrow spiked.

"You do know I know what you're doing, right?" he queried, well-versed in her methods of stalling and deflection by then. Clever as she could be, she wasn't as slick as she'd hoped, and he could see the slight deflation in her expression at being caught out. He peered at her closely, not sensing anything amiss, save for the fact that she avidly avoided his gaze. "Something's going on. Did something happen at work today? Or your physical?" A sharp intake of breath and the flick of her eyes told him he had hit close to the mark, and he frowned. A sudden spike of fear shot through him, that she was putting off telling him bad news. She hadn't been at her best, he'd known that much, but had the doctors discovered there was more to it than that? "Is…what's wrong? Are you, are you…"

A lurch of guilt flooded her, as she hadn't meant to draw it out or tease him in poor taste. Having struggled to find the best way to put things, she just decided to go ahead and spit out the truth.

"I'm pregnant."

Steve blinked, nonplussed, before choking out, "…What?"

"The Martin fertility streak struck again: got knocked up within the first year of marriage," she muttered, pulling a face at her own words for a second. It was true, though; every person in her immediate family had become pregnant or got their spouse pregnant mere months after getting married (or a month before, in Hank's case). Her mom, all her dad's sisters, her grandparents...they all had babies by the first anniversary. With the family blowing up that quickly, it scared the girls to think of how easily it could happen. It was why her sister advocated redundancy with birth control, which had worked for her and her husband...until nature reasserted itself and Cole was conceived. Something about getting a ring on the finger—or within a few weeks of doing so—seemed to amplify the fecundity in the clan, she'd grumbled. It was silly, and ridiculous, and Holly had thought that using condoms would do well enough. They'd worked out beforehand, and there was no reason to expect that to change so abruptly. Shaking her head, she gave him a sardonic smile and joked, "That, or your super soldier swimmers finally got the edge. Either way, the result remains the same."

Reaching down into her bag, she extracted a piece of paper, a few handwritten notes scrawled in the blank margins. She passed him the blood test results, his eyes flicking over the page and riveting to the black and white print-out. It was there, undeniable, unavoidable. And still, his mouth remained shut, his wide blue gaze staring at the paper in his hand as she did her best to explain how the percentages in the specific hormone levels proved it to be true. The grin that had formed on her lips had slid away the longer she went without verbal or physical acknowledgment from him. Holly's stomach clenched nervously, even worse than before, and she swallowed hard.

"Steve, say something," she begged him quietly, her voice cracking. The lack of response from him was making her wonder if perhaps he did not want this after all, not so soon, anyway. They had indeed talked about having children, but it always seemed to be a future endeavor, something they'd try for later on after...well, after. Not right then, at that moment. To her horror, tears began to fill her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, her fists curling in her lap and her nails digging into her palms in order to distract her. "I know we talked about having a family, later on, but I guess, well...I know the timing isn't great, but...well...Steve, please say something."

The shift in her tone caught his attention, brought his focus back to her. Upon seeing the watery eyes and bitten lip, he dropped the paper onto the coffee table, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around her, gently cradling her against him. She buried her face against his shoulder, with her weakly reciprocating his gesture. He felt her shake and take a shuddering breath, and cursed inwardly at his blunder.

"Oh, no. I didn't mean...geez, I'm sorry," he crooned, rubbing a hand up and down her back. He felt like an idiot, an insensitive jerk, for being silent for so long. So many thoughts and feelings had rushed into him when she uttered those two words, that he had no idea how to process them. At first, he had thought she must have been kidding, but it was impossible to deny the moment he looked at the blood test. Pregnant. Holly was pregnant. Carrying their child, his child...he was going to be a father.

Steve Rogers would be a father. A lump grew in his throat, one he had to swallow hard against as he held her.

"This is good," he told her, pulling back and cupping her face in his hands. He meant what he was saying, she could see the honesty in his gaze as he looked at her, the upturn of his mouth as he grinned. It was good, it was great. "Really. It's just...very unexpected."

She blinked, a cautious relief springing in her eyes. "You're not angry, or upset."

His brow furrowed as he swiped his thumbs beneath her eyes, brushing away the errant tears that had dropped. How could he be angered by something like that?

"No!" Steve exclaimed, emphatically shaking his head. His palm dropped, coming to rest just below her navel, pressing into the folds of her blouse. Underneath, though it could not be felt or seen, was their child, already growing inside Holly. The thought boggled the mind, and yet he could not deny the wave of happiness that was swelling inside him. "Just...wow. A baby."

"Yeah, a baby," she breathed, a real smile crawling onto her face and assuagement flooding through her. Her fingers slid over his, looking down at her belly. "Our baby. We're going to be parents. That is so weirdly cool."

"Yes," he agreed, nodding and grinning broadly at her. A giggle blurted out of her then, turning into joyful laughter as she wound her arms around his neck. He held her close for a few moments, before drawing her up for a deep kiss. When they parted, his brow had furrowed, his gaze concentrating on a point over her head. Before she could ask what he was thinking, he piped up, "But, well, how..."

Off her arching eyebrows and deadpan expression, he spluttered, hastening to correct himself.

"I, I don't mean _how_ , because that's obvious, but I thought—"

Her fingers waved superfluously in the air, effectively cutting him off.

"We're human, and even using protection isn't always a guarantee. It's a really narrow margin, but it's possible. The only things that work consistently are abstinence and..." she trailed off, mouth turning down in a frown. He raised an eyebrow at that, and she sighed. Bringing up a hand, she extended her index and middle fingers, miming a scissors and pointing them downward. Catching on, Steve visibly winced at the gesture.

Moving on, Holly retrieved the pregnancy pamphlets Cho had sent her home with, passing them off to Steve. He examined them carefully as she went over the notes she'd taken on the margins of the test, plugging in the numbers she was given. Quickly, they agreed to keep the news to themselves for as long as possible, neither of them wanting to tempt fate by talking about it too soon. When she reported that her appointment with the obstetrician would be taking place that weekend, he hummed at that. He would do his best to be there when she went in, he told her, but he could not promise anything between that moment and Saturday. Knowing he would certainly try, she accepted it as gracefully as possible, though she did reinforce the importance of it. His resolve hardened all the more, and he would do what he could, his eyes widening again as he turned over the pages of the pamphlet and saw some of the inset diagrams and pictures.

After a few minutes, he jerked his head up, as though he recalled something important as well.

"You know, I had thought the garbage seemed lighter this month," he announced suddenly, taking her aback somewhat.

She wrinkled her nose at him. "You noticed that?"

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "When you're primarily the one taking out trash, yeah, you start to catch on here and there."

"But you still didn't connect the dots."

He shot her an embarrassed, rueful grin, and lifted a shoulder. "Guess I was just more relieved that it was less to take care of. Particularly with a guest in the house, now."

"Suppose we better treasure that while we can, because I can guarantee that it won't remain that way for long," she riposted, leaning into his side. His arm came up to curl around her shoulders, and she snuggled in closer. His scent was much stronger to her than before, but at least he smelled pleasant. Tucking the pamphlets between his leg and the arm of the sofa, he grinned.

"Maybe we'll have to split the chore then, for once," he said, focusing on the television again. "Take it in shifts."

She let out a petulant groan at that; she really hated taking out the trash and he knew it. The chuckles rumbling in his chest were his only reply to that, and the conversation lulled into silence. As she grabbed up the remote, switching it to one of the saved shows on their box (the one with the brothers who hunted werewolves and vampires; he didn't care for it, particularly, but at least he could tolerate it) Steve turned more and more inward, elbow propping up on the couch's arm and his chin resting in his palm. The deeper he got into his thoughts, the more noticeable it became. Unconscious of it, he'd begun to bounce his leg, and Holly had to pause the show due to his agita.

"Get out," she mumbled, nudging him in the side to get his attention. Swiveling to look at her, his eyebrows flew up.

"Huh?"

"You've been in your head a long time," she stated simply, tapping a finger at the center of his forehead. Right against the line that had been cutting across it for the last several minutes. "You need to get out of it."

Steve barely managed to turn his lips up at that, his gaze dropping down to her abdomen and back up. "Have a lot more to think about, now."

"As if you didn't have enough. At least this is somewhat better than the other stuff you have to think about," she replied, noting the tightness of his smile. Her eyes scanned over his face, as though she was able to plumb out what he wasn't telling her. "What else, Steve?"

There was no hiding the flash of fear that streaked across his irises. No amount of training could disguise it, and with her, he could not hide the truth. He was a soldier, an Avenger, leading an elite team to face numerous dangers practically every day of his life, dangers that could potentially spill over into his private life. That had spilled over a time or two. He had cared and looked after so many, and now there would be another, this one far more precious than those who had come before. Not only that, his childhood was riddled with one ailment after the next. Though those had largely been corrected and eradicated by the serum, there was no guarantee that it had penetrated to the degree that they couldn't be passed on to the baby. That was why Cho would remain on watch for as long as Holly was pregnant, and after, in case any adverse effects were wrought in spite of—or because of—the serum.

Spying the streak, Holly looked at him for a long moment. "Are you scared?"

The deepest fear of all resided beneath the others. He had been a fatherless boy; he had no clue what he would be capable of, what he could do as a parent. And his work could leave his child fatherless, too. Due to negligence or even a freak accident, Holly would be left without a partner, and the baby would not have a dad. Those were the thoughts burning in his mind, seizing his fears and firing them up little by little.

Steve, underneath the excitement, was terrified.

"...Yes," he whispered, ashamed of the troubles of his heart. He passed a hand over his eyes, slowly exhaling as he combed it back through his hair. Looking at her again, he did not find condemnation in her gaze. Reaching up, she removed his palm from the strands, instead taking it in her own and lowering both back to his lap.

"I am, too," she confessed softly, toying with his fingers one by one. Coming up to his wedding ring, she twirled it around, the rotations of the band almost calming in their repetitions. Peering up at him from beneath her eyelashes, she murmured, "But we can do this. We can. Even if it scares the ever-livin' outta us."

Even if it shook both of them down to their cores, she had confidence and faith that they could. Even when it seemed like a huge, impossible task that loomed before them. People with less fortitude and courage had children all the time, raised them, and so could they. In the meantime, they could plan and prepare as much as possible, another rapid change coming upon them. Sighing, he rested his forehead against hers, silent strength passing between them as he gave the barest fraction of a nod.

The frisson of doubt was silenced, for a few minutes, at least.

 **xXxXxXx**

Proclaiming his intentions to Steve had not gone over well, as Bucky could have guessed. Even with his suspicions proved, he did not think it would be best to give himself over so soon. His erstwhile best friend had misgivings about him seeking out Stark on his own. Tony, he said, had been through a lot over the last several years, so much that he had been greatly altered from the man he'd met when he came out of the ice. He'd been driven to the edge over and over, and this could be the thing that tipped him over it. Though he'd been seeking treatment like Bucky had, Steve wasn't sure that the news wouldn't set him back. He insisted for being present for the confrontation when it happened.

Steve couldn't let either of them face what would come without being near at hand. He didn't want either to be friendless, or alone.

He feared for both of them, that much was apparent in his eyes. And there was a good measure of fear to be found there anyway over the last couple of days. The morning of Stark's arrival at the base had been passed in tense silence, Holly staring at both of them at the table and picking at her breakfast. Questions about it all were ignored, or given some pat excuse, but the ex-assassin could see she was not buying it. A curt glance at Steve told him to hold his tongue; Holly did not deserve to be sucked into the mire with them, that much they could agree on.

As the morning slid into the afternoon, the announcement of Stark pulling into the lower garage level had him on high alert. Having spent the hours since he'd come in training with Natasha, he shared a glance with her, a planned motion she had reluctantly consented to signaling her to go. Watching her leave, he took a shuddering breath, gathering up his bag and disembarked for one of the private conference rooms upstairs. Once there, he waited.

Intercepting Tony as he crossed the floor towards the laboratories, Natasha insisted he come with her. Wheedling did him no good as he followed her, not taking the clench of her fists or the controlled roll of her gait into account (okay, so he looked, but he didn't read any special meaning in it).

"What's going on? I feel like I'm being walked to my own execution right now," he joked as they boarded the elevator, shaking his head at his companion's rigid posture. Glancing away, he missed the micro-flinch that passed over Natasha's features, the stiffening of her spine. "Is it firing squad or guillotine?"

"Neither. Sergeant Barnes wanted to meet with you, in private," she explained, shooting him a smirk. The lack of mirth in her eyes, though, was disconcerting, and the joviality in Stark's expression faltered. Lifting a shoulder, she posited, "Figured this was the best way to entice you to come."

"Because who could refuse such a lovely lady?" Tony snarked back, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. As they stopped and exited the elevator, clattering down the hall that held a number of private conference rooms, his inquisitive gaze was fixated upon her. "What does he want to see me for?"

As far as he knew, the two men had no business with one another. Frankly, he had enough trouble with the one grumpy old man; he didn't need to associate with the one who was trained to kill on sight. It wasn't exactly a secret, either. Another flinch passed over Natasha, one that she did not bother to hide from him, and it made the hackles on the back of his neck raise. Quirking his brows together, he reached out, grabbing her forearm to pull her to a full halt. Silent questions ran between the billionaire and the female Avenger, but he found nothing more on her blank, beautiful face. Instead, she minutely shook her head, flicking her gaze to the nearest door.

"I'll let him tell you," she muttered, bidding him go with her tone. Tilting his head to one side, his dark gaze darted to the door and back again. Letting go of her arm after a few moments, he stepped away, marching straight toward his destiny without knowing. Understanding the impact of what was about to be thrown at him, she couldn't resist calling out. "Just..."

He paused, his hand on the door knob and a droll smile pulling at his lips. "What, Romanoff?"

Her lips thinned and she pulled herself to her full height. She took stock of him, the tired eyes, the cropped hair, the brittleness in his stance. Tony Stark was not the same man she'd met all those years ago, and he would doubtless be changed again after Barnes had said his piece.

"Brace yourself," she warned him, marching away as fast as her feet could carry her. She did not want to be witness to this form of destruction. She'd it before, far too many times, and she could will herself to stick around for it again.

The click of her heels faded after a few seconds, and Stark, brow still furrowed, took her words with a grain of salt. The door handle yielded to him, and he stepped inside the small room.

* * *

 **A/N:**...Oh, this is not going to end well.

Early, TWO PART, update for you all this week! I have been waiting SO LONG to write about these chapters' events, you have no idea. So, wham! Two chapters. Next one will be posted immediately following this one.

Little more Bucky this time around. I hope I did alright with him, along with his interactions with Natasha. ;) And yep, Holly's pregnant. I'm not going to say, "Betcha didn't see that one coming!" Because I'm pretty sure a lot of you did. At least I didn't make Holly's pregnancy the opening chapter of the story or something. I could've done that.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one (very shortly)!


	9. Chapter 9

The small conference room was more the size of a private office. It had the capability of doubling as an interrogation room, with its single table and two chairs on either side of it. On the side opposite the door sat Bucky Barnes, exhaustion in his features while his bearing was otherwise erect. He'd been talking with Rogers, the two men sliding looks at the door once Stark entered. Another glance cut between them, and then Rogers sighed. Gaze dropping to the floor, he made his way out of the room, a single nod given in response to Barnes' farewell. Catching his arm before he could sneak past him, the billionaire quirked an eyebrow up at the captain, silently asking him what was going on. Mutely, the blond man could do no more than shake his head, and iterate how he would be out in the hall if they needed him for anything.

Another pointed look, ice blue eyes sizing them both up, and then he was gone, the door clicking soundly behind him. Nonplussed, Tony turned to sit in the last available chair, a creeping sensation crawling up his spine when he stared across the table. It was strange to think that not one, but two super soldiers had survived after all that time, were in the facility. Of course, Barnes's story was a much darker shade than Steve's, but then again, it wasn't really anything new. Or at least it wasn't enough to make Stark run the opposite direction screaming.

"Sergeant Barnes," he greeted the other man cautiously, curiosity rising with every second that the sergeant did not speak. His gaze flicked up to him, metal fingers tapping against flesh ones as he met Tony's gaze.

"Mister Stark."

"Have to say, I'm surprised that you wanted to talk to me." Stark shrugged, brushing off the peculiarity as best he could. Something was going on, and he hoped that Barnes could at least elucidate. "Figured you and Old Glory would be off gallivanting now that you've come outta rehab. I would, personally."

A wry snort echoed out of Bucky, and little humor had made its way into his face. "I don't think anything of the sort is in the cards for me."

"Aw, come on. I know you old grumps can't stay up past nine, but—" Tony's sentence was cut short by the sudden flick of the other man's eyes, the light tap of his metal fingers on the table top. Shaking his head, Barnes bent in his chair to retrieve the bag he had left on the floor. Digging in it, he pulled out a manilla folder packed to the brim, a notebook atop it. Wordlessly, he set both items on the table, pushing them across the surface to the befuddled billionaire. Curious, Stark glanced down at the items, raising an eyebrow. "What is this?"

"Something you need to see," Bucky murmured, hands folding in his lap. His head drooped, some of the strands of his hair falling free. "Something you need to know."

A wry smirk twisted Stark's lips as he reached out for both folder and notebook, but it slid away as he examined the contents. The folder's papers were written in a slew of languages, with an English transcription accompanying each page. Photographs of the man before him, the savage removal of the last hanging bones of his arm, and the first prototype of his prosthesis flitted by. Reams of paper devoted to the experiments conducted on him, on the endurance tests and the subtle tortures they used to erase everything that made him Bucky, were in hand and he read them in foreboding silence. Then, he found it: the supposed kill list. The speculated list of assassinations committed at his hand as his tenure as the Winter Soldier. He was one of many, but he was their special project, the one who most often bore the title. At the bottom of the list were Steve's and Fury's names, left unscratched.

Opening his mouth to ask why he was being shown all this, when he already knew a good deal about Bucky's past, Barnes shook his head, inclining his chin towards the notebook. A specific section had been tabbed with a piece of colored paper, and off his prompting, Tony turned to that page. Scanning down it, his breath caught in his throat when he skimmed over a crucial line: _...I had been sent to kill Howard Stark..._

Hurriedly, he backtracked, his face going ashen as he read the painstaking details in which Barnes had recorded his contract. To be sure, it was one of several in the book (he had two more similarly filled back at Steve's house), but that was the one that mattered. He had documented all that he could remember. Waking from the ice. Being told to intercept the package. Kill anyone who got in the way. The bend of road, the car speeding along at top speed. The long shot that took out the tires, the crash into the tree. The package was destroyed, and the people clinging to life inside. The drag of the man pushing his way out, seeking help. A mercy killing, a familiar voice nudging at his mind as the fellow fell to him first, then his wife.

 _'It wasn't until three months ago that I remembered who that man was, who I was sent to kill_ ,' the last lines of the narrative ran, nearly missed in the blur of tears and fury in Tony's eyes. _'Another face in a sea of dead bodies, but I did not forget him. Now I know why. It was Howard Stark. I had been sent to kill Howard Stark. I had killed a friend, and I never knew it. Not until it was too late. His son still lives. He needs to know, if he doesn't already. You need to know, Tony.'_

Hands shaking, the billionaire let the notebook fall from his grip, a soft thump on the table top breaking the silence. That, and the shallow gasps Tony was inhaling. His dark brown eyes rose slowly, drinking in the sight of the man seated across from him. He wouldn't have believed it, had it not gotten every detail of the action right: the suspicious bullet lodged in the tire of the car, the injuries inconsistent with those of a car accident on both of his parents. It could have been a lie, if one was able to get to the reports drawn up after it, but they had been sealed, not even making it onto a digital file. That was virtually impossible, but somehow Barnes had been able to give it all down to the drag of his father's body in the dirt and the blood splatter on the ground left behind by his attack. The blood splatter that was half-buried with the swipe of a boot, unexplained and contaminated. He'd read the police and autopsy reports, in a daze, so many years ago, but the details returned to him with startling clarity. No trace had been left of an attacker, and so the police refused to keep the case open (perhaps they'd been bought off to shut it down, he realized). An accident, he'd been forced to concede publicly, even though it had never added up. And, more to that, who in their right mind would claim to have killed Howard and Maria Stark so brutally, after so many years? He had nothing to gain from such an admittance, unless he was stone-cold crazy. Though he had been brainwashed, Barnes wasn't a psychopath; all his testing came back to show that wasn't the case, testing that he had exposed to him willingly. He'd had the training, had been broken by HYDRA, was their top assassin. His father had been a founder of one of the greatest opponent organizations, a threat that had smacked at them for over fifty years. There was motive. That much had been confirmed already.

Mottled red bled into his face, and Bucky knew he was looking at pure rage when he met his gaze.

"You...you..." the other man stuttered, his eloquence lost as the great wave of emotion shot higher. His entire body was trembling now, and instinctively, Bucky slid to the edge of his chair, anticipating the next move. Forcing himself to concentrate, Tony slid a hand to cover his wrist watch, fingers tensing as the sleeve of his jacket was pushed up. "This is all real? This is true?"

Noticing his movements, Bucky did nothing to stop him, to stop the coming storm from breaking over his head. He didn't deserve it, and so he would not asked for it.

"...Yes."

Tense quiet reigned, jagged needles pricking the skin with each breath taken, with each second passed. Shallow, shallow, sharp...

"I'll kill you," Tony said, voice no higher than a whisper. Another ragged breath, and then he screamed at the top of his lungs. "I'll kill you!"

Springing forward, Stark just managed to snatch at Bucky's collar as he slid sideways, instinct taking over to bring him out of harm's way. Bodies smashed into one another as Tony completed the slide, a glancing punch connected with Barnes' temple. Stars exploded across his vision as he tumbled to the ground, the grind and whine of something echoing in his ears. Out of reflex, he swung wide, the metal arm shoving hard into the billionaire's side and knocking him off. Rolling away, he heard the whine again, and when he looked up, he could see Tony's arm raised, a clicking mechanical gauntlet deployed from his watch and wrapped around his hand. An arch of bright light emanated from his palm, power gathered and shooting forth mere seconds later. In the small room, there were very few covers and no hiding spots, and so he was reduced to merely dodging the other man's light shots. One tore through the sleeve of his right arm, burning him and causing him to curse outright. With a holler, Stark surged forward, shoving him down and into the nearby chair, splintering it under their combined weight. Punch after jab pummeled him, a flurry of bruises springing up in their wake.

The handle to the door rattled, something neither of them noticed as Tony's fingers finally gained purchase in Bucky's neck. At that point, the fight that had built up in Bucky was forgotten, all his concentration gone as he simply tugged at Stark's wrists. It was no less than what he deserved...Losing air fast, it all came back in a whoosh as the billionaire was bodily lifted off of him, the backwards momentum throwing both him and his savior into the far wall. Keeping one hand locked firmly around the back of Tony's neck, and the other crunching the device around his wrist, Steve shot a concerned, disgruntled look at both his friends, pain and shame dancing across his irises as he saw the lack of defensive wounds on Bucky. He'd accepted the punishing blows, and it was obvious. Still, he ignored that concern, instead rubbing at the soreness of his neck and refusing to watch as Rogers pushed Tony out the door.

Once out in the hall, with the door firmly closed behind them, Steve let his friend go. Unprepared for the onslaught to turn on him next, he barely managed to dodge when Stark shoved a fist towards his shoulder.

"Did he tell you, too?" the billionaire huffed after a few seconds, the madness in his eyes dissipating somewhat. Swiping at the cut along his cheekbone, caused when he caught it on the arm of one of the chairs, he flapped his hand with disregard to the blood dripping out of it. Steve blinked, the downcast set of his countenance from before returning in that instant. "That's why you're here, right? Bet you wanted to cover your own ass."

Steve frowned and glared in warning. "Tony..."

"Answer the question, Rogers!" he barked, snatching at Steve and gripping his sleeves in a death grasp. Waiting for the answer, he took in deep, harsh breaths, fingers digging into the captain's arms. It was hard to tell whether he wanted to push him away or keep clinging as though he were in danger of drowning. Swallowing hard, Steve met his gaze fully, knowing there was no backing out after that point.

"I read the files, Tony," he said, the fingers digging into his arms falling away. Incredulity edged into Tony's expression, and he lifted a shoulder in response. "There was nothing in them explicitly stating that HYDRA used him to kill your parents."

"But you suspected, had to have suspected," Stark accused, hissing when Steve fell silent. He was unable to deny that truth; Zola had strongly implied that Bucky was instrumental in the destruction of Howard Stark and his wife. While he refused to believe it without any hard evidence to back it up, it was unavoidable once Bucky had told him his intentions for that day. Once he told the truth, details entailing exactly where and when the event took place, and the precise causes of death, he could not ignore it. Seething, Tony reeled back, actually catching him off-guard with a punch to the mouth. It was the left, the cracked metal gauntlet reinforcing the strength of his fist as he caught his jaw. While it did not drop him, it was hard enough to break skin and to make Rogers grunt deeply in pain. Another punch landed, smacking him in the shoulder, and then another, and then another before the splintered metal pieces fell apart.

"And you didn't think that I might need to know about—"

"About what? A suspicion, an idea, without any proof? HYDRA had so many underlings, had so many other assassins to choose from. Why would I think he would always be their first choice?" Steve threw back, firmly grabbing Tony's shoulders and holding him at arm's length. His arms blocked any further swings, and he positioned his legs so that any blows there would not fell him. Instead, he secured his friend in his spot, speaking over his fury and trying to reach the part of his mind that was not clouded. "And how could I know for sure that HYDRA wasn't just telling a lie in regards to that, too? You would've wanted proof, and you would've mocked me for not having any."

"He killed my mom!" Tony cried then, all the hurt and suffering of the young man who had lost his whole world so many years ago bleeding into his voice. Taken aback by it, Steve loosened his hold on him, allowing him to slip out of his grasp. Rather than return to attacking him, Stark bent at the waist, the heels of his hands pressed to his brow. "My dad..."

A stab of sadness punctured Steve, piercing him the gut, and he grimaced. "HYDRA killed your parents. They just used him to make it happen. He was brainwashed, Tony. Which is more than what some of us could say."

Dark eyes flashed up, narrowing at him then. "What in the hell are you implying?"

"Natasha was a world-class assassin and then a SHIELD operative, with a hit list nearly as long and as devastating as his. Barton was an active spy for twenty years, and he didn't walk away unscathed. Thor has been fighting in wars since before time began. Nick was the head of a government organization that killed as often as it helped. Sam and Rhodey spent a good portion of their lives in armed service, which occasionally means casualties. Sometimes innocent ones." The captain paused, gathering his breath to continue the sharp, glaring spill of reproofs and truths. It may have been too much for Stark to bear in that moment, but he wasn't going to let him get away with blaming Bucky of crimes he had no control over committing. Not like they had. "And I...I am a genetically-enhanced super-soldier, who was chosen and made for the sole purpose of deterring a threat to my country, and did so. Many times, with force. Same with Wanda and Pietro, and so many others. The difference between us and him...is that we were all conscious of our decisions, did what we did because it was our choice." Looking at his friend, he could see the flush fall from his face, paling as each sentence struck home. Purposefully, he avoided mentioning Banner's actions, or even Stark's own after returning from the caves, knowing that neither would be received well (and Bruce had very little control of the Hulk as it was, so he could not be truly classified with them, anyway). "After his fall, when they took him...he wasn't. He had no choice. If you have a problem with him, you really should have a problem with all of us."

The billionaire looked at him with unbridled contempt, full hatred rising in his expression. And beneath it, the tiny spark of regret and sorrow.

"Screw you," he spat at Steve, hands balling into fists. He winced; his hands were aching after punching the equivalent of two human bricks walls, but he ignored the pain. "If it was your mother he'd killed, you wouldn't be spouting half the crap that's coming out of your mouth."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't be angry," the captain retorted, hand coming up to clean away the dribble of blood that was now pouring from his split lip. "I'm just saying, remember the circumstances. If it were Rhodey, or Banner, what would you do?"

The last question pulled Tony up short, and while he did not have a verbal answer, there was a low snarl at the back of his throat. How dare he...how dare he? Tremors wracked the billionaire's body as the words turned over and over in his mind, his gaze focusing entirely on the closed office door behind the bigger man. Bypassing Steve's questioning glance, and the curious stares of the milling agents in the hall, took a few steps towards it, bodily shouldering Rogers out of the way. The captain took it, stumbling to the side as Tony grasped the handle and wrenched it open. About to follow, the blond found the door slamming in his face, the click of the lock like a gunshot. Immediately, an electrical barrier flooded over the panels, JJ jumping the overrides and locking the room down. Anxiously, Steve could only step back, and wait.

Tony finished tapping at the handheld that had survived the bouts, tucking back into his pocket when the overrides were in place. The base's security systems were still in his control, after all. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the interior of the room, the broken and scattered debris of the furniture assembled or put into a far corner. The table was repositioned, the single unbroken chair on the side closest to the door. Barnes stood, hands on his hips, a black eye beginning to bloom and a sharp cut along his jaw (not to mention the singed marks on his arm and sleeve). However, it was the newest acquisition that was placed on the table along with the collected files and notebook that drew Tony's attention.

"What is that?" he asked dully, the rage in him driving beyond the ability to emote. It was a facetious wondering; he knew full well what he was looking at. The Glock 26 gleamed in the florescent light of the room, angled with the barrel of the gun pointed at Barnes. The knowledge that he had secreted a gun in the room, and refused to use it even as Stark had attempted to blast and throttle him, broke through the red haze in the billionaire's mind. For his part, the ex-assassin merely gestured at the pistol on the table.

"You want me dead. This is your chance. Take the gun and shoot me," he told him, stepping back to stand against the wall. Hands went behind his back, and and he bowed his head slightly. Ready for his execution, Stark remarked inwardly, a tiny part of him shuddering at that. "I won't blame you for it; if I were you, I'd want to do it, too. After all the hell I caused, I deserve nothing less. Go ahead."

Three steps was all it took for Tony to make it to the table's edge, one quick snap of his wrist and his fingers closed around it. It was loaded, a round yet to be snapped into the chamber. Bringing his arm up the barest fraction, he was preempted once more.

"Just...before you do it..." Bucky breathed, summoning the last of his courage and raising his hands in supplication. "I'm sorry. If I'd known—"

"You did know," Tony cut him off, not wanting to hear the protestations. Not wanting to hear any more hard truths. "You had him in your sights, both of them."

"I didn't. I had no memory of him then, and I had no will of my own," Bucky reiterated, tipping a palm back to the file folder, the spilling papers, the notebook. Every line, every detail signifying the lack of control he had over the contract all those years ago. Every piece of evidence pointed to him being manipulated, but he knew that was not enough. It was no excuse, not to his mind. Not to Tony's, either, it appeared. "But now that I do...I am _sorry_. For _everything_."

Having said his piece, Bucky lowered his hands, his stormy blue eyes focused solely on the barrel of the gun. Tony, throat thickening and eyes blinking against the deep well within him, tightened his grip on the pistol. He unlocked the slide, giving the magazine a final tap and pulling the slide to load the first round. Finger curling around the trigger, Stark brought up his arm, lining the ex-assassin's forehead up in his sights. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to do it, to get it over with. One shot, and it would solve everything.

Except...except it wouldn't. If there was anything he had learned in the last six months, it was that to let his emotions drive him would lead him further down the path of destruction. There would be no peace in putting a bullet between Barnes's eyes. It would not be clean, cutting away the regret and anger of the last twenty years. It wouldn't bring his mother back, and it wouldn't make his dad come home to him. He wasn't staring down a cold-blooded killer, one who deserved to be murdered as easily as he had done to other. Every single word of those papers, of that damned notebook entry, was seared into his memory, forged into the stone of his mind so he could never forget the truth. So that he could not ignore the duality of the man standing before him, awaiting his fate. The blue irises looking back him were not those of an assassin. They were those of a broken, lost man, used and abused, desperate to find a way to live with himself and the horrors he'd inadvertently wrought.

It was a familiar set that looked him in the mirror every day.

Wavering, Tony choked out a breath, his hand shaking so much that it was visible now. Slowly, he dropped the gun back onto the table, pushing it away as though it had bitten him.

"I...oh, my God. I can't," he gasped, sinking into one of the chairs and desperately trying to control his breathing. All the simmering energy that had surged with his anger had fallen, the rush of adrenaline gone. Shuddering sobs were poised in his throat, shakily pouring out of his nose as his face buried into his hands. "I can't do it."

That wasn't who he was, that wasn't Tony Stark. He wasn't a murderer, no matter what was said virtually worldwide. The desire to cause Barnes harm was still strong, but it wasn't in him to commit the deed. Because if it had been Rhodey, or Banner, he would not have been able to condemn him for things beyond his control. No matter who or what he'd destroyed in the process. It was not a heartless killer that deserved it. Just a man, a remorseful man, looking for salvation in a place where almost none could be found. Silent tears dripped out of Stark's eyes, horror and ire and hurt pushing out of him at an alarming rate, the water caught in his aching palms. Seconds, or perhaps hours, passed in which Tony succumbed to the swirl of emotion, his deep breathing matched by the other man still inhabiting the room with him. Exercises taught to him by his therapist to combat the rise of anxiety were employed, bringing him little by little away from the edge. A cough, and a sniff, and he unveiled his face, swiping the last of the tears off. Looking up, he noted that Barnes had not moved from his position by the wall. His blank stare had latched onto a point on the far wall, and his body remained at attention, ready for the next move. Bile rose, and Tony hastily choked it back down, bracing his hands on the edge of the table. Inhale, then exhale. Inhale, exhale. Turning away, he retrieved his handheld from his pocket, releasing the overrides and unlocking the door.

Before he opened it, and washed his hands of the Winter Soldier, Stark shot a heated glare at Barnes.

"Hope you're not looking for forgiveness, because I'm not gonna give it to you."

Bucky blinked, drawn out of his reverie back into the present. Noting the deadly seriousness in Tony's gaze, he nodded comprehension.

"I know," he muttered, arms crossing over his chest.

"Good."

With that, Tony left the tiny conference room, snapping the door shut behind him. The milling agents had long since deserted the hall, but the captain had not. Indeed, he'd been joined by Natasha, their close-headed discussion ending as soon as the redhead spied him coming through the door. Tony could not bear the sight of either of them, the heaviness of his soul weighing him down. Curtly nodding, he took off, striding away as swiftly as he could. Steve and Natasha exchanged a glance, and with a single nod, they separated. She stepped up to the conference room door, rapping it lightly before entering, and the captain followed after the billionaire, unwilling to leave things so unresolved.

"Tony, I—" he started, unsure of what to say. At the sound of his voice, Stark pivoted on his heel, pausing so abruptly in his journey that the captain nearly ran into him.

"You know, I always figured you were the one I could trust. You were supposed to so good, so perfect from your teeth to your toes, that something like this should never have happened." Tony snorted to himself, dark eyes snapping up from the ground. Rage and sorrow bordered his irises, and his jaw tightened. The blond man, the hero from the golden days, his dad's pal, and he was no more than a hypocrite and a liar. Just like everyone else. "But it did. Guess you're not so perfect, after all."

The lashes of Tony's tongue stung, rightly so, and Steve bore the brunt of them willingly. He'd known that this would be his comeuppance for concealing the truth for as long as he had; honestly, he had expected worse than cutting remarks and the few bruises that Tony had left on his person.

"Nobody is," Steve intoned sadly, carding a hand through his hair and pain wracking his features. Looking Tony square in the eye, he nearly whispered, "You're both my friends. I didn't, didn't want...what was I supposed to do?"

Tony didn't want to see the agony that had surfaced in his...leader's...expression. He did not want to acknowledge the rock and hard place Steve had caught himself in, the knowledge of the damage that would be wrought when both his past and present collided. The knowledge that no matter what they did, it would not change anything. Steve Rogers was supposed to be a paragon, an arbiter of justice and right...and to a degree, he still was. But he hadn't been a paragon when he chose to withhold information, and then chide him for doing the same back in May. Where was the justice in not telling him about his parents' deaths before?

 _'You're both my friends...what was I supposed to do?'_

The thought reverberated in his mind, ringing louder and louder until he physically brought his hands up over his ears to block out the noise. Deep breathing, calming, soothing breaths...A hand came up to rest upon his shoulder, but he swatted it away before it could land. Taking the hint, Steve lowered his palm, going so far as to take a step back and give him space. The hum and buzz of his mind gradually lowered to a tolerable level, giving Tony enough ground to look up at him again, to speak.

"In case you're worried about it, because I think I've got an idea about where your priorities lay, I'm not giving up on the team," he ground out, tucking his hands into his pockets. He would not abandon the team due to an oversight. An egregious, outrageous oversight and lack of trust at that, but still. There was too much to be done; the world could afford to lose them, any of them, now. He would stick around for them, for the sake of the world's safety. No poorly-made decision would unseat him so easily. They had all worked too hard and come too far to be split apart now. "We're still needed, even old bags like you, so I won't leave you high and dry. But don't be surprised that my faith in you has dropped, or if I question your motives from here on out."

Again, it was no less than Steve had expected, but it hadn't stopped him from narrowing his eyes when Stark swiveled around again, preparing to leave him behind. No, he wouldn't just let him walk away. Not before he had confessed everything.

"It wasn't that I didn't say anything because I wanted to hurt you," he stated plainly, his even baritone pulling his friend up short once more. Gritting his teeth, Steve's eyes slammed shut as the lurch in his mind and stomach rose, the truth digging its way out with sharp, cutting claws. "It's because I _didn't_ want to. I knew that even a rumor about this could actually devastate you. And why would I want to hurt you with a rumor, with a potential lie? I couldn't do that, Tony."

Eyes opening, the ice of the blue had melted, drowning in deep self-reproach.

"I'm sorry."

It was all he could do, apologize and hope that his friend would someday find it in him to forgive him. However, he knew better than to expect it to be that day, or any of the days following. Perhaps he would never be forgiven. Perhaps there would be no equilibrium between the two men again, the choice Steve had made forever shaking them apart. After a few moments of silence, Stark lifted his shoulders, as though he were physically shrugging both him and his apology away. Shaking his head once, twice, he lifted his chin, counting on his natural swagger and confidence to take him out of the facility, out of the madness that threatened to swamp them all.

He was tired, he was broken, he was done. Barnes could burn in Hell, for all he cared, but he did not want to do anything with him at the present moment. Not that there was much that could be done, anyway; Bucky Barnes had been legally dead for seventy years, and brainwashed to boot. His crimes were not of his making, and even if they stuck, they wouldn't stick for long. Even if he got an army behind him, it would not end well for any of them, and frankly, Tony was too fed up, disgusted, and exhausted. He had lived in fighting, in blood, for too long. He was just done. It just...wasn't worth it.

"The guys need anything fixed or upgraded, send me an email. We'll set up a time at the Tower for them," he stipulated quietly, unwilling to grant even the most rudimentary of phone privileges to his erstwhile friend. Hardening his expression, he cast another harsh glance over his shoulder at him. "And Barnes stays the hell away from me and mine in the meantime."

The unspoken addendum of Steve staying away from him rang loud and clear, as well, and he would have been remiss to overlook it.

"I can't...I can't be around here for awhile," the billionaire mumbled, taking stock of the base's hall, committing its layout to his memory. He didn't know when he would return, or if he'd even want to, but he would not forget the place that he'd built, that housed his friends. Housed the team he was supposed to be a part of, but could not fathom interacting with at the moment.

Steve inclined his head, hands resting along his belt. "If that's your decision, we'll respect it."

"Yes, _you_ will," Tony shot back. Frowning, he continued, "Tell your missus I wish her the best of luck, dealing with the two of you; hopefully she'll get the message, at least. Before Barnes snaps, I mean."

The last lash struck home, and finally, _finally_ , he made Rogers flinch, something he was pleased to do, though later on he wouldn't be proud of it. Neither of them had much to be proud of at the time, and would admit as much in the future. Then, though, the remark hung in the air, the thickness close to choking them both.

"Stark." The name, the farewell, was strongly spoken, despite the layer of defeat upon the captain's face. The billionaire glance back at him once more, and he shrugged again.

"Rogers," he replied, his feet propelling him forward, his flight uninterrupted from that point onward. Left in the silence of the hall, the captain lowered his gaze to his boots, hands shoving into his pockets and guilt tightening his throat as the footsteps of his friend faded away. In time, he too exited the hall, walking blindly away from Bucky and Natasha (who had both come out of the conference room to discuss what had happened), unable to hear their voices as he went. He had failed both his friends, had potentially failed his teams, and he could also fail...

No, it wasn't time to think on it. Tapping over his comm application in his phone, he summoned the others to an emergency meeting, requesting Natasha bring the files with her as she guided Bucky upstairs. They would hear the truth about Stark's flight, the truth of his parents' death, themselves, and as a team, they would decide how to proceed.

 **xXxXxXx**

The air throughout the base had become fraught with suspense and tension, practically snapping and popping by day's end. Rumor had it that Tony Stark, there one minute and gone the next, had gotten into a major altercation with the rest of the team upstairs. Nobody had details about the direct cause of his flyby trip and fury, but it was speculated the relations between him and Captain Rogers, which had been regarded as tenuous at best, had finally broken down. Some claimed Stark's inherent arrogance, others claimed it was Cap's natural self-righteousness that caused the decay. Either way, it was noted that both men had visited the infirmary separately, and Stark had proclaimed that he would not be returning any time soon.

What was water cooler chat for others was a major concern for Holly, and when she heard the fast-spreading rumors, she felt the sickening slide in her stomach. Her nausea had nothing to do with the baby, and everything to do with whether or not any of what was said was true. It took a considerable amount of willpower not to march out of archives and straight up to the private offices, just to see Steve. Her mind was too scattered to allow her to be of any use that day, but thankfully, she did not have any deadlines to meet, and so it was overlooked. As the clock ticked past five o'clock, she resolutely scooped up her bag, ready to run and find her husband as soon as possible.

A knock at her door startled her. Looking up, her heart pounded harder when she spied Steve on the other side of the glass. His head was slightly bowed, putting his face in shadow, and when she got close enough to see, she gasped at his split lip and bruises forming at the corner of his mouth.

Whisking open the door, she grabbed his wrist and gushed, "Steve, what's happened?"

"I...I..." he trailed off, glancing at the workers leaving their offices and catching sight of him. Frowning, he shook his head. "Not here."

Nodding comprehension, she took his hand, both of them practically running out of there to avoid the stares and the questions lobbed their way. Their footsteps clipped across the tiles of the halls, hands gripping tightly as they boarded the elevator to the garage in silence. When the conveyance stopped on the first level, she led the way to her car, as it was the less recognizable of the two. Unlocking it, she was nearly bursting for answers by the time they climbed into their seats, doors latching firmly. Locking the car again for good measure, she turned to look at him, his pensive frustration all the more obvious.

"People have been saying that...well, they've been saying a lot of things. About you and Tony having problems, which is evident in your face," she said, the myriad of rumors cresting in her mind as she looked at him, at his cut and his bruises. Carefully, she stretched out, the pads of her fingers running along the curve of his jaw. "Are you going to tell me about it?"

"I don't...I don't know if I can," he said, the words sticking in his throat. What he had to say had the potential to make things worse, and that was definitely not a good time for it. His gaze flicked down to her belly, and mutely he wondered what would be worse for the baby: telling his wife directly or if he dealt a slow, softening blow. He sighed to himself. Dramatizing, as always; the habit should have died a natural death long ago, but it seemed to be as much a part of him as ever.

Holly tried to gentle her pinched expression into a smile, and failed spectacularly. She reached down, prying one of his hands out of his lap, wiggling her fingers in between his until they laced together.

"If you can..."

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes running over her face as if he were memorizing every detail. Leaning in, he quietly asked if he could kiss her first. Stunned by his request (he hadn't had to ask her for a long time if he was allowed to do so), she gave her permission. When his lips brushed over hers, there was the taste of regret and shame on him, the copper tang of blood still evident under the antiseptic on it. The embrace deepened, despite his wincing, as though he would not get the chance to do so again for a long time. Oh, that did not bode well, she thought when he finally pulled away, his thumb drawing across both her lip and his to clean up the splotches of blood. Squeezing her fingers with his, Steve cleared his throat, eyes focusing on a distant point in the garage.

"I screwed up," he stated calmly, as if he had just pointed out his shirt was blue. Puzzled, she furrowed her brow, wondering what he could've screwed up so badly in one afternoon. In short, quiet bursts he told her. Everything. About Bucky's admittance to him about two significant victims of his past, and how Stark was brought up to meet with him. That he nearly killed Bucky when he was told the truth, and how he'd attacked Steve for withholding it from him. She sucked in a breath when he gave her the abridged version of their verbal sparring, resulting in Tony almost completing the deed. The friendship was in shambles, Bucky standing in the ruins between them, and Steve, well...Steve had done exactly as he'd said. She'd listened to every word, breathless as he confessed that Bucky had unknowingly destroyed a part of another close friend's life, and how it had nearly cost them both so much that day.

So _that_ was what had him up last night, worrying in the dark and taking to pacing the floor when he thought she was sleeping. _That_ was what he had not talked about that morning, the tense silence between him and Bucky taking on an entirely new meaning as they woodenly ate. A low groan rumbled in her throat; though she'd asked them both, outright, what was going on (and received nothing but mutterings and complacence), she didn't know it would involve something like that.

Letting her head fall back against the rest behind it, she closed her eyes, trying to process it all. This, this was the impossibly difficult part of maintaining an association with a reformed brainwashed assassin, she mused perversely in her mind. This was the problem when his friend, her husband, would unfailingly go out of his way to protect him and the one he had harmed, and the cost was not considered. Lids flicking open, she looked at him, the loss and the heartache he was feeling in the downturn of his lips, the quirk of his brow.

Blowing out a sharp breath, she tipped her head forward again. "...Sounds like a hell of a day."

"It has been," Steve concurred after a snort of derision. He turned to look at her again, uncertainty lacing the mixture of emotions in his face. "How can you...you should be angry with me."

"Because everyone else is, right?" she retorted, shooting him a knowing look. Pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand, she exhaled slowly. "Angry, hmph. Well, I can't say I'm _pleased_ with it all. I don't know how you could keep stuff like that from your teammates. From your friends."

It was one thing to not tell her every detail of the missions he went on for her own safety; that she was still making peace with, but it had more or less become a part of her life. It was the—rare, she had to admit—deliberate keeping of explosive secrets from even his colleagues and the people he considered his surrogate family that was the trouble. Rolling her eyes to herself, she rubbed her hand along the back of her neck. Blowing out a breath, she tried her best to temper her words.

"But...the situation is a difficult one," she conceded, a finger crooking over her eyebrow and running along her scar as she contemplated the situation. Haltingly, she went on, "None of you are totally right, and none of you are totally wrong."

"I was stuck. It doesn't excuse what I did, but...I couldn't tell Tony," Steve said, the conflicting sadness and indignation rising with every word he uttered. "And I couldn't leave him in the dark indefinitely, but...how could I give up Buck like that? Without proof? It would be like saying that he has no chance to come back, that he should be condemned for something he had no control over. I don't know what else I could have done." He harrumphed to himself, scrubbing his free hand over his face, thumb tapping against his cheekbone as he pondered the choices that had been before him. The choices that he could have made since the previous summer. Defeated, he let his hand fall back into his lap, blue gaze staring out the window again. "Something, anything else, I guess. But I thought...I thought that it was for the best, for everyone."

That last was spoken in his unyielding tone, the one he used when he felt he'd been put in a position of authority. Recalling the audio that had been transferred to the radio station after the helicarrier disaster, she found that it had trace echoes of that time in it. It was his captain voice, the tone that spoke of responsibility at the price of comfort, duty over passivity. He'd made an executive decision, thinking it was the only good choice available to them. Well, she hated to burst his bubble, but in that case, no choice that he would have made could've been accepted well. Rock and a hard place, and he'd been pummeled between both.

"I don't agree with you not telling Tony your suspicions." Glimpsing him out the corner of her eye, she could see Steve's shoulders slump a little upon hearing it. "I think keeping something that big to yourself is a mistake. Even if it was just suspicion, I think you should've said something. To soften the blow, if nothing else...but it's not like people should hate you for it. I don't."

The disturbance that had rippled across his face had been lightning-fast, but she'd caught it before it had gone, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Did you think I would?"

Blue eyes met hers, then skittered away. His lips twisted into a rueful grin, and it made her heart ache to see it.

"Steven," Holly drawled his name, half chastisement and half endearment. He knew better than that. "You're human; you're not perfect, nobody is. I'm certainly not." She nearly snickered at herself; good Lord, she wasn't. She was bound to make mistakes and verbal blunders, sooner rather than later. She knew full well that she could be doing so right at that moment. "I hope you'll still love me despite that. I still love you. Even though I don't like what you did. What any of you did, really. It was just...a total suckfest, start to finish."

"Not gonna kick me to the curb?" he joked weakly, finally feeling something other than guilt and indignation for the first time in hours.

"It's not that easy to get rid of me, honey," she replied, lifting her chin. Small chuckles passed between them, with them dying as the moment passed. The garage had become progressively emptier since the beginning of their discussion, with very few people left who had yet to make the commute home. Biting her lip for a moment, she said, "This is going to have consequences."

Steve nodded in understanding, confirming her summation soon enough. "The team has misgivings. The circumstances of the whole situation has them on edge. They've all looked at the files after Tony left. They understand the extent of the damage done to Bucky, and what was done by him."

It had been decided among the three of them that the rest of the team would be informed of Bucky's involvement in the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark once Tony had been told. The team, while not ignorant of Bucky's past as the Winter Solider, deserved to know how close to home he had hit, to know how far he had come. Natasha and he had made a point to let the team go over every single paper in the files from Kiev, the compiled transcripts the he'd pulled together with Sam, and Bucky's notebook. Nothing could remain hidden for long, and it wouldn't be right to do so, not after what had gone down. When the reasons behind why Stark had made such a hasty departure were revealed, that it had been his assassination of one of their member's parents, the reactions were strong, to say the least. Bucky had endured the silence, the scrutiny, and he'd made his case, just as he had to Fury in May.

"But they do know that he wasn't in control of his actions, and that he wants to atone. That he's not the only one who has been forced into that sort of situation. Rhodey's very leery of him, and wants to hold off on working with him personally for the time being. And Tony has washed his hands of the whole thing, for the present. Nat spoke in his favor, and I think that helped sway them a little, at least."

Holly hummed at that. Bucky Barnes was incredibly fortunate to find an ally in Natasha Romanoff. She would be the person least likely to string him to the rafters over being manipulated and broken by others. That carried weight, as far these circumstances went.

"And the other team?" she asked, curious as to how much would be told to them.

"They've been informed," he said. "Given how far removed they are, they don't have much of an opinion on the matter. Or, they didn't before this, at least. Pietro wants his sister to keep her distance as much as she can, but...Chapman gets it. He's seen something of this caliber before. They're wary, and gonna wait to see what will happen."

A few seconds of silence passed, and she tapped a finger along the wheel of the car.

"So you haven't lost them, or your job," she pointed out, knowing that losing the team would be akin to him losing members of his family. Losing his job would pale in comparison. He shook his head in the negative.

"No. But...we have lost something. They've lost trust in me, at least a little." He risked a sideways glance at her, dipping his chin. "It's going to take awhile to earn that back. And Bucky, and Tony, well..."

How much that truth stung him was evident in his voice. His reputation had been sterling for so long, that people put him on a pedestal, thinking he could never do any wrong. Captain America was the pinnacle, and there was no hope of his losing that. But she knew him as Steve Rogers, and Steve Rogers, while a good man, wasn't always right. That loss of faith among them all was probably hurting at the moment, and he had no idea what he could do to mend it.

"I still trust you," she told him, meaning it. He closed his eyes at her quiet proclamation, squeezing her hand gratefully. She cupped his chin with her free hand, turning him to face her. Once his eyes opened and he looked at her fully, she let her fingers glide to the back of his head, threading them into his hair. "And I trust that you're going to keep trying to do your best. Right?"

Gently, she tugged on the short strands as if to emphasize her point. He snickered at her efforts, but he did manage to incline his head.

"Yes," he agreed, the acquiescence made in time. A palm grazed across her lower belly, the caress gentle. He promised, "For both of you, for everyone."

"Okay," she accepted his word, a kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth (she didn't want his split lip to open again). A final squeeze of her hand, and Steve unlocked the car door, preparing to exit the vehicle and allow her to go home. Pulling out of her grasp, he climbed out of the passenger side, bending at the waist to tell her one more thing.

"Bucky's...Bucky's going to stay with Sam for tonight," he said, sheepishly shrugging a shoulder. The alliance between the two men had not been broken, and Sam was willing to give him shelter. "He thought it would be better."

Holly closed her eyes at that. Her feelings regarding the damaged man, varied as they were, had been shaken by the revelations of the day, and he had acknowledged that tacitly in his insistence on not intruding on their home. He would not force her into asking for it herself, and she felt at once relieved and saddened at the prospect. She knew taking in Bucky Barnes was going to be complicated. She hadn't thought it would warp to the level that it had. Slowly, she nodded, her dark eyes connecting with Steve's bright ones, the luster lost for the moment.

"Alright," she said, letting the decision lie. Her husband let out a deep breath as she started up her car, and she glanced back at him. "I'll see you at home, then."

Murmuring a similar farewell, he moved away, the door shutting soundly. Swiftly, she backed out of the space, turning the radio off so her thoughts could remain undisturbed as she drove out of the base and onto the frontage road.

* * *

 **A/N:** Serious talk right now. I had debated, long and hard, about whether or not to make Bucky actually responsible for the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark in the context of this story. Given that I have largely decided to eschew the events of CW, that was one of the sticking points that I did not know that I could rightfully ignore. After all, as early as TWS, it was heavily implied that Bucky was in some way used to bring the "car accident" to fruition. That was one of the "conveniences" that had angered me about CW: the use of Bucky as the scapegoat and the obvious tool of HYDRA to use. But could I actually push that aside? Ultimately, I chose not to. To ignore that particular plot point feels like a form of cop-out, just as far as this story goes; other stories do a magnificent job of glossing over it or refusing to make it canon for their plots. I didn't believe I could do that. So this is a tamer version of what could have happened in the movie, regarding Stark's reaction. If you find it unbelievable that Tony would accept Bucky's word as truth without the video, I submit this to you: there's no reason for Bucky to want to claim the kill, as he's trying to reform after being brainwashed. There's no reason for him to claim a kill that, by that point, had happened over twenty years ago. There would be no gain for him, since he's trying to leave that all behind, and Tony realizes it. As well as that, Bucky has provided evidence in his testimony about details of the "accident" that aren't known to the general public. Plus, there was the stuff that Natasha had dumped on the Internet in regards to SHIELD and HYDRA. It was mentioned in the previous chapter that the leaked information, up to and including HYDRA's hit placed on the Stark patriarch, was shared with him as well. So the suspicion was there, but nobody had come forward. Until now.

And you guys thought Bucky was going to have a tough time atoning _before_...It will be interesting to see how he gets along now.

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text.

Two updates this week, but I can't guarantee that will happen next time.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

 **EDIT, 9/7/16.**


	10. Chapter 10

The days that followed crawled by slowly, the team on tenterhooks as they awaited the drop. Or rather, as Bucky and Steve awaited the drop. Though Tony had effectively washed his hands of the pair of them and the altercation caused by their actions, they all wondered if he would truly leave it at that, leave them to the work and the base, leave them in their broken state and refuse to have anything to do with fixing it. One day passed, and then another, with Bucky Barnes still a free man and Steve Rogers was not implicated as an accomplice, nor was Natasha Romanoff dragged down with them. The only person who had heard anything from the billionaire on the matter was Rhodey, who had reported that Stark just considered it unwise to act one way or another at that point. (One got the distinct impression that he had cleaned up the language and phrasing, but the gist remained as he stated it to be.) Instead, they were left to their own devices. Instead, he would let them sit in their guilt, and ignore them. Perhaps that would be a suitable punishment, for the time being. Either way, it left the ex-assassin at loose ends and the captain struggling to pick up the pieces, on top of everything else.

And it left those who cared for them with a bad taste in their mouths, and a slight fear of what could come in the future. For the moment, Holly was grateful to still have her husband at her side. She was grateful that spite and rage had not driven Stark to go after him, not that time. Not knowing what could come in the next few months, she was sorely relieved when she woke in the mornings and he was still there with her, bearing up as best he could. And when the Saturday of her first prenatal appointment dawned, he was riding shotgun, with an altogether different reason behind his pale face and wan smile. The drive to Saratoga Springs was done in silence, with the couple taking the Buick to blend in better. Even with the base's status as being unlisted, and their own home as well, it never hurt to try and stay incognito as they traveled to the nearby towns. Particularly when they actually desired to keep a low profile; ball cap and sunglasses returned, and even Holly had buried herself in layers in an attempt at disguise. A light fall of snow peppered the streets as they navigated through the city, parking a few blocks away from the hospital. As per the agreement reached between Cho and the clinic, they went around to the entrance designated for medical and general staff when they arrived, signing in with the security staff positioned there. Holly felt her hand start to sweat as Steve's grip encompassed hers, the feeling of being out of her depth returning in that instant. Up until then, the morning had passed quietly, passively, an excuse given to Bucky fairly easily. (He simply had blinked at them and shrugged when Steve told him they would be out for the morning; still, his eyes sparkled, recognizing that his friend wasn't being totally truthful. He let it slide, though, and they were both grateful for it). It almost seemed unreal, despite the confirmation Cho had given them earlier in the week, but the closer and closer they got to the examination room, the more undeniable it became.

For some time, they sat in the designated visitors' chairs, glancing nervously to one another, tepid smiles passed back and forth. Steve fiddled with the strap of the messenger bag he'd brought with him, papers from the base within and waiting. He'd insisted he bring it along, and Holly wasn't about to deny him that much. She knew what was in the bag; she didn't think it would be best to keep those papers out of the light. After several minutes had passed, and the pair were beginning to wonder if perhaps they had been forgotten, the door swung open again. A heavier-set woman bustled in, her lab coat being adjusted around blue scrubs. Her dark blue eyes twinkled in the florescent lighting, fingers tapping at the stethoscope around her neck. Steve sat up a little straighter in his seat, as if he were the one who would undergo examinations that day. Upon entering, she introduced herself as Carol Watson (Holly drew in a sharp breath at that, but Steve shot her a fast look and a minute shake of the head, understanding exactly where her train of thought was going. She'd already made comments about working with "Dr. Watson" before; it would probably be best to hold off on those for awhile).

"Hello, Mrs. Rogers, Mr. Rogers," the obstetrician greeted them warmly, holding out her hand to shake. As they did so, she settled back onto her rolling stool, laying her compiled notes on the nearby counter. Smiling widely, she said, "First of all, congratulations."

The young woman across from her gave her a small, but genuine, grin. "Thank you."

"Secondly, before we begin with the examinations and everything else, I understand you have some concerns." The young couple glanced at one another, most likely wondering how she'd known so quickly. Carol chuckled quietly to herself; oh, the stories she could tell about new parents...but that was not on the cards for the day. "In that regard, you are like a lot of new parents. I will certainly do my best to put those to rest."

"Again, thanks. At this point in time, we're both kind of just digesting this all," Holly stated, her bluntness softened with the lopsided smile that followed it. Steve merely tipped his head in agreement, biting the inside of his cheek as his wife proceeded to inquire what exactly would be required of her for the appointment. Questions about her menstrual cycle, its duration, any related symptoms and her health up until that point were lobbed back, with him glancing around the room curiously and tuning them out. It was a little disconcerting to see the set-up of the examination table across the way; the stirrups were not something he was overly familiar with. As Carol asked after Holly's habits (did she drink? How often? Was she a smoker? Did she take any prescribed medications?), he nearly allowed himself to be lost in a fog.

That is, until the doctor asked them for the family's medical history. A sick, cold slide wormed its way up his throat from his gut, and he coughed. Turning to him, Carol waited patiently as he attempted to find his words.

"That's the thing that has me worried," Steve broke out, cursing himself inwardly for the lack of tact he was showing. However, it could not be helped; he truly was concerned, and he could not let it wait any longer. Catching Holly's swift glance, he bent to reach into the messenger bag he'd brought with him, the file folder he'd retrieved from Helen days ago in hand. With a heavy heart, he held them out, waiting for the doctor to take them from him before speaking again. Holly's warm fingers threaded through his cold ones as he shrugged, attempting to explain himself. "I, um...well, Doc, it's my—"

"—Your personal medical history," she filled in, paging through the documents he had proffered. It was common knowledge at that point that Captain America had once been the archetypal 'small, skinny guy.' However, that description barely scratched the surface; there was quite a list of ailments to consider as well. It had been cleaned up and printed out on modern computer paper, but it still ran long. The asthma was a given, but after it followed astigmatism, scoliosis, arrhythmia and high blood pressure, and a number of others (she shivered when she got to the pernicious anemia; she recalled the old treatments of the disease—eating raw liver—and pitied him terribly for living through that sort of hell). Going over them once again, she looked kindly at him. "I can see why you would be concerned, Mr. Rogers. But, given that there are special circumstances regarding your case, I'm not sure that you have much to worry about. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of consulting with Helen Cho about you both when she referred you to me." It came as part of the referral, but she did not want to be stepping on any toes right off the bat. When Steve merely canted his head in the negative, she continued, "I may not be a premier geneticist, but I believe I have a grasp of the situation at hand. She believes—and I concur—that you were altered on a genetic and cellular level due to your participation in Project Rebirth. It was, essentially, one of the earliest forms of what is now known as epigenetics and genome editing, even if it has never been solidly labeled as such. Your transformation penetrated to the very core of you just to even make you as tall as you are now, let alone everything else that was changed. Because the original conditions were altered, or even erased, to make you as you are, it is unlikely that you are a carrier for any of the hereditary issues you previously had now." Off the look of incredulity he shot her, she raised an eyebrow. "Unless you have developed anything new since then?"

Steve stared at her, a little flabbergasted. It wasn't something he had ever considered, that he wouldn't be sentencing his own child to a lifetime of illness.

Tongue loosening, he swallowed hard, the cold twist in his heart starting to dissipate. "No, nothing."

The doctor nodded, tapping a thumb against the stack of papers before her now. "We can do carrier testing, though, to confirm it. And Doctor Cho and I will confer as well in case anything does crop up."

"I'm more likely to screw the kid up genetically, huh?" Holly piped up then, the melting of the tension allowing her to jump in again. She shrugged a shoulder when Steve frowned at her pronouncement, his hand squeezing hers as a form of reassurance. She had tried to blunt her words with a grin, but it fell a little flat.

"It's not like that at all, Mrs. Rogers," Watson chided her, a humorous glint in her eye. Rising from her chair, she beckoned the younger woman to come forward. Motioning for her to take a seat on the examination table, she went on, "In the meantime, we've got a few more things to take care of."

Another physical was to be conducted, and a pelvic exam followed shortly after that, with Steve stepping discreetly out of the room for it (at Holly's request; she'd hated gyno exams before that day, and she did not want a witness to yet another with her). The fast thumping of his heart did not slow in that time, the relief flooding through him so thoroughly as he waited patiently in a bank of chairs down the hall. When he came back, the doctor had finished drawing blood to test for numerous possible infections, immunities to other illnesses, and her Rh status. As the samples were capped and handed off to a nurse, Carol had postulated that the due date would fall sometime around the end of July, perhaps the beginning of August if the baby decided to take its time. The appointment was not by any means short, but it did seem that they were back on the street again soon enough, the next one scheduled four weeks from then.

"So no sonogram this time," Holly muttered as they exited the hospital, narrowly avoiding the avid stares of the staff as they went out the back door. Layers on, cap crammed onto the head and sunglasses to shield them as they meandered away from the facility, the cold bite of the December air cutting into them. She was flipping through the printed off pages Dr. Watson had handed to her, clicking her tongue. "Just a big, ol' list of things I can and can't do or ingest for the next several months. Awesome."

Steve, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, slid his arm around her waist. The messenger bag with his copies of his history shifted against his hip as they walked, the bottle of prenatal vitamins Holly had been given clicking inside. Glancing up at the cloudy sky, he exhaled slowly.

"This is all so surreal."

Holly looked up at him, blinking and smirking. "Honey, you could literally be talking about anything that's happened in your life...ever."

His chin dipped down, a chuckle floating out. "I guess. But this is definitely not something I ever pictured."

The smirk softened, and she snaked her arm around him then. "What, being a father?"

His lips twisted in a bittersweet, rueful smile, fingers tugging on the bill of his ball cap.

"Partly. No, it's mostly that the baby might not...be like me. Not like how I was. Out of everything, that was not something I was expecting," he admitted only to her. He had many fears in regards to the newest alteration on their lives, and that was one that really made him to sick to think about. To be told that, more than likely, his child enduring a similar life he'd led up until his early twenties would not happen alleviated something deep within him. Her arm curled tighter around his waist when he confessed that, the brush of her thumb along the scratchy wool of his coat muted. Lifting a shoulder, he continued, "That, and that I was there with you, and nobody looked twice at me for it. Men weren't...well, they generally weren't part of the process when I was growing up, as far as I knew."

A flash of memory came to him, of the many trips he'd taken to the hospital back in that day both for his ailments and to find his mother at her job. He remembered the rooms designated for new fathers to await the arrival of their children, some of their stern, nervous faces surfacing in his mind.

Holly tipped her head back, shrinking a little further into her coat as a freezing breeze passed. "Some men still aren't, but the attitude has changed, for the most part."

"Yep. I'm okay with it," Steve confided, pulling her in a little closer to shield her. The last block was disappearing fast beneath their feet, and they rounded the corner, approaching the parking lot in which they'd left their car. "I wouldn't like not knowing what was going on with you or the baby."

She snickered, tucking the papers under one arm and increasing her pace. "You do like having answers. I'm glad you were there, too. This is kinda freaking me out. It's a first for me, too."

"And it hasn't even been a full week since we've found out," he pointed out, matching her step. As she gave a low groan, he smirked and retrieved the keys to the car from his pocket. He dropped a peck in her hair before letting her go. "It'll get better."

"Yeah," she replied mildly, shaking her head as she waited for him to unlock the doors. Soon enough, they were climbing into the vehicle, papers and bag stashed in the back seat under the shield (their constant companion, as ever). Withdrawing her phone to check the time, she blew out a sharp breath. "Alright, I've been poked, prodded, examined, and drained of fluids. Mama needs a treat."

An affectionate warmth filled Steve upon hearing that, and he smiled broadly.

"And what does Mama want?" he asked, turning the key and starting the engine. Heat slowly began to fill the cab, and outside errant flakes of snow were starting to fall as he let her ponder the question.

Checking the time again, she leaned back in her seat. "Lunch with my baby-daddy sounds good."

Ready to agree, his hand paused on the gear selector when she said that, brow furrowing. Walking himself through the modern vernacular, he frowned in distaste.

"...Please don't ever call me that again."

Holly laughed, sticking her tongue out at him.

"No promises, Nerfherder."

 **xXxXxXx**

A week had passed since the fateful day of the Stark and Barnes reckoning, and the air around the base was no longer popping and bubbling with tension and hostility. Rather, it was starting to cool down to a simmer. Though it was by no means resolved yet (indeed, it was highly unlikely any such thing could be resolved in such a short amount of time), it still was dropping down to a tolerable level to deal with.

As it was, the Black Widow bore up the strain remarkably well; to her mind, she had seen and experienced much worse in the workplace. The Avengers were still several shades of gray lighter than SHIELD had been, and nowhere near the inky blackness that was the Red Room. Besides, there was more to think about in the last few days besides the debacle amidst the team. A sojourn into Quebec had yielded some interesting results in terms of information. Having performed some follow-up on Sam and Wanda's previous mission in November, the person they'd tailed actually had a viable connection to Klaue. A drop and exchange of goods would be happening within the next month, one that the odious man would be attending to in person. Whether or not the information was true, or if it was just a trap set for the team to fall into, remained to be seen. Either way, she'd left a strung-up dealer in the middle of the streets of Montreal, and she gotten what she'd needed from him. All that was left was the interminable paperwork.

Working diligently throughout the afternoon, she had shut out the world around her to get it all completed, ready for debriefing the next morning. Her phone had buzzed a couple of times, the missed calls mounting as she went about her task. Having glimpsed the number as it popped up each time, she'd sighed, and resolved to return them the instant she had a free block of time. She did not think the caller would be so persistent, though, nor would he use his override privileges she'd given him to establish a secure connection.

"There, I'm using the wall link," a familiar voice chirped suddenly, making her head snap up in surprise. The high definition display on the wall nearest to her was lit up, opening to show a man sitting in what looked to be a work room of sorts. The edges of a desk bled away from the edges, colored papers and half-spilled boxes filling a quilted bedspread behind him. The white door along the far wall was shut, affording them some privacy. Twinkling bright eyes stared at her, strong jaw quirking as the mouth turned up in a smirk. A baby with his sandy hair and his mother's brown eyes was in his lap, cooing and insisting (via wiggling legs and squirming body) that he bounce him on and off. "You better talk to me this time."

"Clint," she greeted the man onscreen. A weary smile broke over her face upon seeing him. It had been some time since she'd had a chat with her erstwhile best friend, video or otherwise. Gesturing to her dwindling pile of paperwork, she murmured, "Been kind of busy."

"Apparently. Otherwise, you would've picked up the damn phone," he retorted smartly, a discreet wink shot at her. He knew full well the kind of workload she had; it was only six short months ago that his had been the same. Still, he jerked his chin up, stoically bouncing his baby boy and snickering as the child gurgled. "Now you have no excuse to ignore me. Isn't that right, Nate?"

Tickling under the baby's chin, Clint Barton stood his youngest son up on his legs, holding him close to the screen to say hello to 'Auntie Nat.' The ex-Avenger waited until she obliged him with a smile and a coo-filled wave. When that was finished, he lowered the little one back down, grinning widely at her.

"Yes, because I'm the only guilty party here," she said, picking up the thread after a few moments. Fingers pushed the paperwork away from her as she swiveled in her chair to fully face the screen. Crossing her arms, she raised an eyebrow at Clint and gave him a feral smile. "I did try calling you last week, but somehow I got sent to voice mail three times. Wonder what you were up to?"

He matched her raised eyebrow with one of his own, and chuckled under his breath.

"The kids were with their grandparents for a week. What do you think I was up to?" Before she could voice an answer, he mimed a stretch with one arm, scratching through his close-cropped hair. "Finally got to sleep consistently and soundly for the first time in months."

They shared a laugh at that, with little Nathaniel giggling along and waving his fist in the air. He was supposed to be calming down for bed, but his father wasn't exactly enforcing the schedule at the moment.

"Sure, that was all that you and Laura were doing," Natasha concurred sarcastically. Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, she asked him, "When's Baby Number Four due?"

"No, no, no," Clint quelled the query immediately. His eyes had widened significantly at the suggestion, and he was quick to shut it down. "Trust me, that ain't happening. Being extra careful now. Otherwise, Laur threatened to drug me and bring me in for the ol' snip-snap. As my Christmas gift, of course."

The curve of Natasha's grin grew, and she tilted her head to the side.

"She taking donations for that?"

"Okay, alright, let's get off that, and move onto another subject, please," he replied, now desperate to speak of other things. It really had been too long since they had spoken. For the first time in years, the two friends inhabited two very different worlds, and while Natasha would never begrudge Clint for making the choices he had, it was difficult for them to connect now. However, it would not prevent them from catching up. With a gentle prompt, Nat did inquire after her niece and nephews, and about the projects that the archer was undertaking with all his free time. The kids were doing well, on top of their schoolwork for the most part (Cooper was starting to slack a little more often, his enjoyment of video games and any activity outside of homework overriding everything in his mind), and Laura was well enough herself. Clint had taken up Nate-wrangling duty whenever classes were in session, and thus far he had completed the flooring. The dining room was being converted into a den and workspace, separate from the one upstairs that he was currently hunkered down in. To her ears, it all sounded so...peaceful, domestic. A world away from hers, a world that she could barely touch every once in awhile. Though she could see the worry in Clint's eyes (he was starting to lose his ability to dissemble very swiftly) that he was boring her, she wasn't at all. It was novel, and she rather liked it. Still, he was just as eager to hear what had been going on with her, and said as much.

"You gotta tell me about the new guy," he requested, shaking his head at his own words. That descriptor didn't quite fit. "Well, old guy, I guess, given how he is a century old and we have met before. Point being, how is Barnes adapting?"

The easy smile on the Black Widow's face lessened to a degree, her gaze focusing on a point above the screen. She had told Barton that she would keep the channels of communication open during the summer months, and when he arrived back East in November, she'd reported how she would be training him in. Natasha was unsure of how much Clint needed to know about the situation with Barnes.

"He's...he's trying," she confessed quietly, crossing her arms over her chest and sitting back. "Some pretty disturbing knowledge was brought up, and it's sort of weighing down on his progress. The team isn't sure they can trust him after it came to light. Some of them, anyway."

Clint hummed at that, cradling a calming Nate in his arms as he pondered that information.

"I'm assuming that includes you," he posited. Off the bare flicker of her eyes, his brow furrowed. "Or maybe not."

She shrugged, remaining silent. His eyebrow arched at that.

"So you don't, then."

"It's not that simple," she riposted, catching herself off-guard with the honesty. Perhaps she shouldn't have given into it, but Clint was one of the very few people in the world that she trusted enough to let her guard down. Especially when it came to confusing scenarios that she was thrown into. "All his actions have been laid bare, and he isn't hiding or running from it."

"Ah, point in his favor, then?" Barton wondered. The fiery redhead lifted a shoulder at that, her expression bland.

"I suppose so."

Clint stared at her for a long moment, saying nothing. His sharp gaze missed nothing, not the bend of her body, nor the slide of her eyes as she thought. The minute tics restrained and hidden were laid bare before him, as they had been from the beginning. Though he did have bouts of impairment (such as with the thing she'd had with Banner, and that was mainly because it came so far out of left field that he couldn't have believed it, if Laura hadn't said anything about it), he was able to detect her shifts in mood and mind quicker than most. But, he figured, it would be wiser not pursue that course. For the time being.

"What did he do?" he asked instead, his tone dropping. When she didn't answer right away, he chewed the inside of his lip, glanced away. "Can't be any worse than what I—"

"Not at liberty to discuss it without express consent," she interrupted him. The situation between Barnes and Stark had thrown them all, but that was one of the hard and fast rules of it. Nobody would talk of it outside of the organization, not without Bucky or Tony granting permission. As it was, they were definitely not willing to divulge. Softening the harshness of her words, she calmed her tone. "If you rejoined the team fully, then you can be clued in. But, off the record...no, it's really no worse than what happened with you." She frowned then; Barton's experiences with mind control and manipulation really weren't all that different from Bucky's, but there was at least one marked one. "It was...slightly more specific."

A few moments of silence passed in which that information sank in, what wasn't being said sifted through and stored away. In the background, Natasha could hear the raised voices of Cooper and Lila, their mother's admonishments for them to tidy up the mess they'd made downstairs floating through. Barton half-turned in his seat, listening as the voices faded several seconds later. Looking back at her, he sighed.

"...Okay. Well, in that case, I don't really have much to say to that. If he's trying to right his wrongs, I'm not going to nay-say the guy," he commented, knowing that his opinion would not hold much weight, given how he was in partial retirement. Lifting a shoulder slowly, so as not to disturb a sleeping Nate, he continued, "I imagine Cap is getting a lot of flak because of it all, too."

The grimace that graced her lips told him all he needed to know about that, but that didn't stop her from speaking.

"It's shaken a couple people's views of him. Which happens when you put people on pedestals." Tossing her hair, she tucked one of the loose curls behind her ear, exhaling slowly. "We're all treading very carefully around one another for the time being."

To be honest, it was like walking on egg shells around everyone, and that got on her nerves more than anything else about the entire situation. It wasn't as if any of the others hadn't any blood on their hands. She certainly had more than her fair share, and yet she was respected, an equal. Barnes was at least repentant of his deeds, unlike some others she could've named. Either way, it made everyone soft-spoken and edgy. And vigilant of one another. The archer huffed out a quiet breath, canting his head to one side.

"Makes for a tense environment," he responded, having no idea how true a statement that was. Blinking, he rocked his now-sleeping son as he considered something for a few seconds. "You planning on escaping for Christmas, since we are edging ever-closer to the holidays?"

That was right; Christmas was only weeks away. However, her employment did not always allow her to celebrate holidays. A noncommittal tip of the head, a few fingers flicking in the air preceded her answer.

"Don't know. Depends, as always. And..." she trailed off, rubbing at the back of her neck, "well, I'm not sure I should leave this year."

Not with everything so uncertain, not with everyone still looking askance at their leader, at her. If she stayed, she could be able to prevent things from falling into worse disarray. And then again, she could exacerbate the problem. All she knew was that she had two compatriots who could use support now, more than ever. A look of exasperation decorated Clint's features, and he tutted under his breath at her.

"You didn't leave last year, either. Or the year before that." He fixed a mocking glare on her, concern threading his voice. The previous year, she'd been at the Tower, watching out for any blips on the radar regarding Loki's scepter...and with Bruce. Though she was removed from the place, she might not have been removed from the memories. New ones had to be made, to blot out the old, and he would see it done. "You're allowed to take off, take care of yourself every now and again, Nat."

She snorted, running a hand over her face to conceal the grin that threatened to bloom. "I know, Mother."

"The kids miss you," he pressed, lifting the sleeping baby a little for emphasis. Nodding back in the direction of the door, he told her, "Lila keeps asking about how you're doing."

"And they're the only ones, right?" she joked, shooting him a knowing look. Without missing a beat, Clint shrugged and tilted his head to the left.

"Eh, I could take or leave it." A corner of his mouth turned up as she rolled her eyes at him. Letting the levity pass, he maintained his focus on her, the glitter in his bright gaze holding an edge of sincerity. "We all miss you."

The honesty in his tone caught her, clinging around the ragged edge of her heart and pulled. It showed only as a twitch of an eyebrow, the grave set of her countenance growing starker as the time marched on.

"I'll...I'll see what I can do," she reasoned eventually. Natasha had not been away from the base for any longer than a few days, even when on mission. She did have time off to use, and she had given so much in the last six months. The last year. The last several years. Glancing up, she spotted the spring of hope in her best friend's gaze, and that wore away at her resolve even further. "See if they can survive without me for a few days."

"A week. You're staying for a week," he stipulated, not giving an inch on the demand. Raising his chin, he declared imperiously, "They can figure it out."

She smiled, knowing that in his mind, the matter was settled. Barring any emergencies or disasters, Natasha Romanoff would be staying with his family for the holiday. With her family. Vaguely assenting to the plan, she soon enough signed off, allowing Barton the chance to put his boy to bed and for her to deposit her reports for filing and review. Her office was situated down the hall and around the corner from the captain's, and soon enough she made her way there, prepared to drop off his copies in the receiving box attached to the door. However, a sliver of light came through the cracked portal, the blackout controls on and turning the glass walls and inset panels opaque. Screwing up her brow, she approached the room cautiously. It was after eight o'clock at night; Rogers was hardly ever at the base after that time, unless there was a mission in progress and he was manning the comm controls. Did he have his own work to finish? He generally was meticulous about tying up the loose threads. Pushing the panel, her eyes widened as she noted the brunet man seated at the desk, rather than a blond.

"Oh," she breathed, hovering in the door frame. Cupping a hand in the air, she went on, "I thought you were Steve."

The wry smirk the fellow shot her invited her to return the gesture, and she obliged. Scratching at the scruff along his jaw, Bucky Barnes folded his arms and rested them on the desk top. Under the overhead light, she could see the light purple bruising beneath his eyes, the tense set of his shoulders under his red Henley shirt. The desktop computer before him was opened, the display screen a scanned-in drawing sent by a young fan. It had been distributed to them all, a little girl having labored over the artwork to get in all of the Avengers, even the new ones. The bright colors and cheeriness of the crudely-etched faces went quite a long way to lift the spirits of the team, and evidently it went far enough that the captain preferred to see it every time he booted up the computer. Bucky's gaze slid over it as hers did, and he chuckled slightly.

"Sorry to disappoint, doll," he drawled, sardonic to the last. The use of the pet name made her blink, but she otherwise took it in stride. It wasn't the worst thing she'd ever been called, and she wasn't exactly there to tidy up his outdated vernacular and vocabulary.

"What are you doing in Steve's office?" she asked instead, leaning a shoulder against the jamb. Steve's personal museum, she privately renamed it; the room was filled with the memorabilia he'd reclaimed from the historical societies, his dress greens now in a display case along the back wall, a few of his framed comic covers hanging up. The modern touches in the room were overwhelmed by nostalgia, but she was hard-pressed to find any fault with it. It wasn't her space, and it could have been worse. Returning her attention back to the other man out of time perched there, she waited for an answer. After the first couple of days hiding out at the base, he'd returned to the house, taking up his room and offered space again. He didn't often stay after Steve did, unless he had a training bout with her or a private video meeting with his therapist, neither of which were on the schedule for that day.

"He let me have unlimited access. I'm catching up on a few things," he explained, shrugging his shoulders. Hefting a bag off the floor, he placed it before him, digging through and starting to remove the contents. "It's quiet here."

Tilting her head, she grinned and raised a brow. "Is it not quiet at the Rogers residence?"

A derisive bark of laughter shot out of him then, unbidden. The implication of her words had rolled so fluidly over her tongue, and she snickered even as he ducked his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. Shortly, though, the smirk he was sporting faded away, his blue gaze dropping to the edge of the desk before him.

"It can be, but, well..." he trailed off, metal hand coming up and swiping at the loose strands of hair on his forehead. Taking the opportunity to come in, Natasha dropped her papers into the receiving box with alacrity. Tucking her hands into her pockets, she approached him carefully, stopping within a few feet of the desk.

"Things are okay there?" she inquired, light eyes tracking him with genuine concern.

"They could be worse. They probably should be." He let his hand tap along the desktop for a moment. Blue eyes dipped towards the framed photo at the corner, a candid shot of the captain seeing his bride for the first time. Focus locked onto it for a second or two before he met her eye line again. "Steve told her the truth. Which was for the best, I think."

Natasha frowned, thinking she understood the lay of the land. Something inside her burned, but she refused to acknowledge it.

"And she's shutting you out."

Truth be told, she hadn't expected that kind of behavior from Holly, but she knew that people could change at the drop of a hat. They could desert one another for reasons for far lighter reasons. Bucky shook his head, setting the record straight swiftly.

"No, that's not it. It was never easy between us, and it's definitely not that way now, but she's not going out of her way to treat me terribly," he said. And it was true; Holly hadn't specifically targeted him or made him feel all the worse for imposing in her home, with his myriad of sins. In fact, she really hadn't much to do with him at all. He snorted to himself. "No matter what I deserve. It's just...far more awkward."

If Steve wasn't in the room with them, the air became so thick with what was left unsaid, what was left in the wake of the fall-out, that conversing seemed to be a struggle. It would take time, to rebuild to the tenuous equilibrium they'd developed when he first came out of rehab. Much like with everything else in his life. Sensing his discomfort with the topic, Natasha cleared her throat, closing the distance between them.

"What are you trying to catch up on?" she wondered, dipping her chin towards his set-up on the desk. He'd removed several DVD boxes, a couple of granola bars, and a notebook. Trailing a finger over the cover of the notebook, she barely had time to recoil when he snatched it away. At first, she'd assumed it was a private journal, but he had flipped it open to a page, his slanted scrawl decorating it.

"Right now, films. Apparently some pretty good ones came out, and I missed them," Bucky told her, gesturing for her to read the list. One title marched after the other, and she grinned. It reminded her of the red booklet Steve used to carry around, his list of essentials to understanding the modern world around him. She wondered how many running lists there were now between the two men, and inwardly she visualized them nattering on about everything they'd missed.

"That's right, you did," she rejoined, her mouth curving up as she glanced over it again. "Not a bad list here. How far have you gotten?"

Barnes leaned forward in his seat then, a hairsbreadth from her bent form as he tapped his finger along the lines. She held her breath for a moment as he muttered quietly, taking the tally and narrowly avoiding her own skimming finger.

"I've gotten in a good amount. Have some time to kill nowadays," he pointed out almost needlessly. Though he'd been in training for a few weeks, Fury was still hesitant to bring him on mission with the helicarrier crew. Anything with the main team was also put on the back burner, until he'd proven his sanity and competency. It wasn't enough to have Steve or Natasha vouch for him, not anymore. Consequently, his evenings were free to fill as he chose, and he could only utilize the gym so many times before he started tearing out his hair in frustration. His brow furrowed as he paused beside one title on the list. "I've made it down to this one, but the order has me confused. I'm supposed to start with the fourth one, go until the sixth, and then switch to the first and watch until the third." He risked a glance up at Natasha, hyper-aware of her proximity at the moment, her blue eyes searching his. "She...Holly insisted this was the correct order, that that was the only way to watch them. And Steve was right there with her when she handed them over."

"Wow," she exclaimed, blowing out a low whistle. Gently hoisting the box for the fourth installment, she held it up almost reverently. "You do realize that she basically lent you her babies, right?"

If it was a joke, it barely qualified. The _Star Wars_ movies were among Holly's prized possessions; only her books mattered more in regards to her affections for material things, and that was a narrow margin, indeed. For God's sake, she owned a dress that was patterned after the little blue and white droid, having worn it to work at the base (given how nerdy a lot of the staff were, it actually allowed her to blend in). Natasha wanted to make sure he comprehended how deadly serious she was about that.

Also, she wanted him to know how, even despite the awkwardness, the other woman was actually trying in a small way to reach out to him. Even if it were only for Steve's sake.

"I got the impression they were important," he mumbled, eyebrows arching. Lifting a shoulder, he continued, "Evidently, there's a seventh installment coming out. I have to catch up before that."

Natasha nodded, taking another look at their surroundings before pulling back. "You want me to clear out? Give you some space?"

She hadn't gotten further than a few steps when a clearing throat made her stop. Shooting a look back at him, she witnessed the coy tip of his head, the metal hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. Back in his day, she might have reckoned those to be affectations, but in that moment, they seemed somewhat genuine.

"Actually...I wouldn't mind the company," Bucky professed. Hastily, he flicked a few fingers in the air, providing a plausible explanation for his want of a companion. "I usually end up pretty confused about some of the stuff in the pictures, and frankly, I think Sam is getting tired of fielding my questions. So if you wouldn't mind answering them, you could stick around. If you wanted."

He was not making the offer lightly, she knew that much. Bucky Barnes was not easily given over to people, for obvious reasons. He was often melancholy, often brooding, lost in his mind and the darkness that had consumed him for so many years. There were days where she'd found hardened agents scurrying away from him just from merely getting to close to him in the halls, the aura of anger permeated so. But that wasn't all he was; slowly, but surely, he was figuring out that he didn't need to shut himself out, and off, from the world. His demons didn't need to eat at his soul, constantly fed by his personal loathing and self-hatred. And so there were times, like now, when he would seem downright personable. She knew what a cost those times came at.

The deepest, darkest part of her was screaming, railing at her for not walking away. The beat of _familiar, similar, this has happened_ _before_ pounded and pulsed, a low ebb shuddering in her heart. She was not ignorant; she knew herself, knew that things were taking a turn. However, that turn could come to nothing, as it always had before. It wouldn't dictate her actions, and it did not mean she would inevitably be drawn the exact same course again.

While she was having her mental debate, she noticed the fall of his face, the blankness sliding over his features the longer she remained silent.

Inwardly, she shook her head at her own behavior. Such speculation was childish, and she was reading further into it than necessary. Barnes was becoming a friend, had been for the last few months. Naturally, he'd prefer her company over the others. It wasn't a hard concession to make, and so she'd oblige.

"In that case, we should move this party elsewhere. I'm not sitting in a desk chair for over two hours for this," she murmured, her agreement making him sit up straighter and his mouth to curve upward again. Hooking a thumb at the door, she said, "At least there's a couch and food in my quarters. Come on, Barnes."

The communal rooms were out of the question, but at least he could be welcomed into her space. And before she thought about that phrase too hard, she was helping him scoop up the DVDs and meager eats he'd brought with him, waiting until he'd pushed all back into his borrowed bag before leading the way out. Clicks and heel rings of their boots echoed in the open space, with him matching her pace easily. The subtle shift of his stride, wherein he was brought closer and closer to her, did not seem to be deliberate, but it did put Romanoff on high alert. The stark contrast of their forms stuck out to her as they walked. The tall, unyielding cut of him was a foil to her lithe gracefulness, even in the simple act of moving from one place to another. He did not lumber; he was as light-footed as she when the situation called for it, despite his bigger build. No stoop, back erect, gaze sweeping out ahead, a lifetime of training not forgotten even in the time away. It was doubtful it ever would be forgotten.

Forcibly, Natasha pushed the drifting thoughts away, shoving them down. Whatever it was that was drawing her out in such a manner, it needed to be redirected. Barnes was Barnes, and he would be no more to her than any other person on the base, on the team. Better to find another distraction for him, another person to commiserate with.

In the end, it could save her so much.

Crossing through the security points, they eventually made their way onto the floor of apartments. Passing the communal kitchen, Natasha's eyes flicked over, catching sight of a distraction, one that would suit her purposes. Halting in her steps, she held up a hand to preempt Bucky from going on without her. Flashing her a confused look, he waited even as she brushed it off, her hand waving through the air.

"Hey, Maximoff," she called out, jarring the younger woman out of her trance. The utensils that had been floating around her dropped, but she caught them deftly before they hit the floor. Mildly impressed at her improved dexterity, Natasha gave Wanda a partial grin. "You up to anything?"

Glancing down at the utensils in hand, Wanda smiled ruefully and placed them on the nearby counter.

"No," she confessed. The look she cast the Black Widow bespoke of the rest of her unexpressed sentiment: _As you can see._ Evidently, her robotic partner-in-crime was nowhere to be found; the Vision was seeing to disparities between their personal networks and the Oracle grid, a task that would encompass the entire evening, it seemed. Left to her own devices, Wanda had taken to "exercising" her mental faculties, improving on her telekinetic ability. It was her hope that by the end of the season, she would be able to lift any one of them in combat while still being able to perform other abilities. So practice, practice, practice, she would. Starting with small items.

"Want to join us?" Romanoff offered, ignoring the sudden tenseness of Barnes' body as she spoke. The tut of her tongue was barely restrained. If he wanted to have any success, any chance of reforming his image and moving beyond his past, he couldn't allow himself to be shut out anymore. If she had to be the one to push him, then so be it. "Movie marathon."

Wanda dragged her widened gaze away from the other woman, instead focusing on the taller man. Her brother had advised her to be cautious around him, that Barnes was still unknown entity and it would be best for her to have her guard up around him. Privately, they had discussed the untenable position they'd all been put in, and the twins, while maintaining a wary front, were not about to judge Barnes wholly by his past failures. Failures that, unlike them, he had no control over. His fate was not in his hands back when he was contracted to kill so many people. Unlike them, unlike her, where her sole purpose and goal a mere year ago had been to maim and destroy her enemies at will. They too had been manipulated by HYDRA, but not the degree that he had. His soul was open to her inner eye, more open than some others' she'd come to count on as teammates and companions. While he was no innocent, she knew that underneath the layers was remorse, sorrow, repentance.

However, it wasn't the man's past that had her hesitating. It was the things unsaid that gave her pause. She looked at both of them for the moment, the raw energy swirling around both the Black Widow and the would-be Winter Soldier nearly overwhelming. The raw energy that, unbeknownst to either of them, passed from one to another almost seamlessly. It seemed like a line, one that she was not sure she was willing to cross.

"I...I suppose," she replied after a few moments, her green gaze locking on the soldier. "If you do not mind."

Slightly unnerved by her eyes, the intensity of them not quite matching the carefree set of her face, Bucky stumbled a bit over his speech.

"Um, no. That's okay," he said, darting a look back to Natasha for a moment. For her part, a sense of relief swam up inside her (not entirely quashing the rebellious slide beneath it) as Romanoff beckoned her fellow Avenger forward, inquiring as to her experiences with the great American saga that they were about to partake in. The younger Maximoff twin had, like so many others her age, watched the films before, and she had no complaints. She certainly would not mind watching them again, particularly now that she had a sort-of connection with the Jedi herself. Quirking up his brow, Bucky wondered if it had to do with her lifting the spoons and spatulas beforehand, and she nodded proudly. Exhaling softly, Natasha ignore the lurch in her stomach, and focused on having forged the beginnings of a path for the auburn-haired girl and the fellow.

Comments flew amongst the trio, the women speaking more often than the man, as they entered the quarters designated to the Black Widow. From across the room, a set of dark eyes watched as the younger woman tapped the arm of the Winter Soldier, twitching his sleeve and asking him something in Slovak. In turn, he retorted in Russian, to which the redheaded woman laughed over her affronted compatriot and ushered them both inside. The dark eyes blinked, and Sam Wilson rubbed a finger at his temple. While he did not begrudge Bucky his chance to start mending fences, he was a bit curious about something.

"Okay, dude's almost one hundred and a known assassin," he groused aloud, dropping the book he'd been reading in his lap—he would be spending the evening alone, as his companion of choice was deep in relief follow-up efforts for the next few days. Shooting a glance at the teammate nearby, he hooked a thumb in the direction the trio had gone. "How the hell does he have any pull?"

To his mind, it seemed that he personally needed six months, good luck, and a glowing recommendation to get anywhere with women nowadays (something Kay confirmed when he brought his suspicions to her later on, with a laugh and a kiss). Not that he would want to see the guy languish as a pariah indefinitely, but in one night he was entrenched in the company of two very beautiful women, even after the darkness of his past had been shoved into the light. It was worth pondering, for a moment or two.

A loud snort came out, followed by a distinct eye roll.

"That's like asking what the meaning of life is," Rhodey countered swiftly, not even bothering to raise his eyes from the tablet in front of him. Frankly, there was little he wished to discuss regarding Barnes, even when it came to posturings. Shaking his head to the screen in his hands, he rose from his chair, sauntering towards his quarters. "I have no answers for you, man."

Thus the Falcon was left to his own devices, shaking his head and crossing the room to see if four would be considered a crowd. If he wanted answers, it would be best to go to the source, after all.

 **xXxXxXx**

The buzzing alert on the handheld device rattled it against the end table, the clatter echoing in the silence. In the darkness, a sharp breath came, a low grumble on its heels. With a curt command, the lamps in the room sparked, the yellow glow lighting up the space. In the middle of the big bed, Tony Stark had rolled over, reaching out for his handheld to shut it off. He hadn't slept soundly in over a week, his dreams laced with death, destruction, and the eyes of the murdered haunting him. The eyes of a murderer...

The last week and few days had been spent in a sort of fog, with Tony withdrawing into his mind. Outside of his therapist and Pepper, he'd refused all contact with the outside world, relieving the horrible events of the previous Wednesday. His brain refused to let him rest, let him forget. Barnes's confession was forcing him to relive his parents' death, all the pain and anguish rising from beneath the thick walls he'd buried them behind. When he returned to the Tower, his initial response to the still-roiling rage and sorrow was to get stone drunk, a tried and true method of the past. However, when he woke the next morning, hung over and laid out in his bathtub, the pain was still there. It could not be numbed, or shoved away, and his heart ached so badly at his wish to be able to do so that it nearly broke him all over again. It was no wonder that he hardly got any sleep.

That night, however, he'd actually been able to fall asleep, mind blank and blissfully devoid of the fanciful, horrible dance of his mind. So, of course, that was the night wherein his faithful AI had roused him, jarring him awake well past the midnight hour. Leaning back against the headboard, Tony flicked his eyes shut, a small moan of discomfort bubbling in his chest.

"What the hell, JJ?" he barked at the air, not minding his tone in the least (with Pepper in California for the weekend, he could be as loud and pissed off as he damn well pleased).

"Mister Stark, I have detected a presence in the downstairs laboratories," JJ reported, not put off in the slightest. In fact, the program's tone seemed to hold more than mere placidity. An undercurrent of worry seemed to be invading its words, distress coming to the fore.

Tony groaned aloud. There was almost always a presence downstairs; after all, the building was home to offices of the Stark Industries corporation, as well as being his home. People came and went at all hours, employees of the company passing in a steady stream day in and day out. _That_ was why he was woken?

"So one of the lab rats is puttering around. So what?" he snapped, the heel of his hand rubbing harshly against his eyes. A nearly imperceptible huff seemed to come out of the AI, but it persevered nonetheless.

"If it were merely one of the daytime personnel, then I wouldn't say much one way or the other, sir. It was opened with the interns' access code." It paused as the billionaire arched an eyebrow. Interns primarily worked during the day, but there had been a few times where some of the older ones—college kids, God love 'em—would stay through until the morning hours, working on some project or another alongside one of the laboratory workers. One of them coming in at that time, with no supervision, was puzzling. JJ went on, "Last four digits of the personal I.D. are 0506."

The end numbers broke through the haze of sleep then, bringing Tony into full alertness. Those four digits sounded extremely familiar.

"It's Mister Parker, sir," the AI reminded him smoothly, as if sensing his momentary lapse of memory. Peter Parker? School Nights Parker was there? The kid was still hanging around, his final presentation in August having earned him a spot in the year-long program. On occasion, he would pop downstairs to check on his progress, take a look at all the things Parker was making headway with in between schoolwork and his home life. Lately, though, he'd been showing up less and less. He'd contracted an illness roughly around the beginning of November, and though he'd made a full recovery, something about the incident had shaken him out of his normal state (he'd been a little twitchy before, a little nervous, but that seemed to have multiplied). It had made him concerned, but not unduly. It was entirely out of character for him to be making any trips into the city past midnight, even if it was a Friday night—technically Saturday morning. Coming in from Queens wasn't exactly the easiest jaunt, not in December and not in the middle of the night.

"Peter? Why would—" Stark was cut off by the screen of his handheld lighting up. Security camera feed had been redirected to show him the teenager's path through the facility. The look on the kid's face was one that cut him to the quick; the rage and the unadulterated sorrow was visible even in the low lighting as he moved from one point to the next. The kid was on a rampage, it seemed, moving from lab to lab, pushing and shoving tables and chairs as he went. It was when footage of him seemingly screaming and flipping a steel table before collapsing to the ground that Tony understood it went beyond a mere expression of feeling.

"He is in a highly agitated state, sir," JJ supplied as the billionaire's eyebrows shot up. Understatement of the century, right there. "It would probably be best to save the questions for him specifically."

A retort was barely withheld in that moment, Tony's brow furrowing as he threw the covers off his lap.

"JJ, triangulate the kid's position," he commanded hastily, bolting out of the bed towards his dresser. Swiftly retrieving the first clean shirt and set of jeans that came to hand, he threw them on haphazardly. He needed to get to Peter before he inflicted any more damage, before he hurt himself. "Tell me which lab he's in."

"Yes, sir. Latest scans point to him being in Laboratory B."

"Uh-huh," he mumbled, fumbling with the button on his pants and marching towards the door.

"...Perhaps it would be best if you remembered your shoes, Mr. Stark?" the trusty AI called after him. Recalling the images of broken glass and strewn laboratory instruments from the footage, he quickly tromped back into the bedroom to snatch up a pair of sneakers.

"Yeah. Right."

JJ seemed to hum at that. "And also, I would suggest hurrying."

"Already on that, JJ," he called out, wedging his foot into the left shoe and jogging out of the quarters at double time. The right shoe was shoved on when he reached the elevator, a hand carding through his mussed hair. Descending to the research floors, he jogged down the hall to the correct space, the door already open. Stepping over the threshold, Tony's eyes widened as he stared. Graphs and papers littered the floor, carpeting it. A couple of broken beakers had joined them, the glinting glass reflecting the single bank of lights that had been turned on. His gaze ricocheted over to the steel table, overturned and shoved into the far wall. The pieces of equipment that had been stacked atop it were flung all around, the legs of it jutting into the air. He could only stare at the wanton destruction; no kid at the age of fifteen and weighing less than ninety pounds soaking wet should have been able to do that kind of damage.

And speaking of the fifteen-year-old...he glanced over to the far wall, where the kid in question was seated. Heavy jeans encased his legs, though they were scuffed with dirt and a spatter of something darker. The sweatshirt he was wearing was bulky, torn at the shoulder to reveal the bright red and blue of the shirt below. He'd grabbed one of the stools designated for the space, and instead of breaking it (like a few others), he was perched atop it, arms curled around himself and his head drooping. The bow of his body, the grip of his fingers in his shirt, put Tony on alert. Coughing once, he paused to see if that would grab the boy's attention. When he did nothing but flinch, Stark sighed.

"Holy crap, kid. What the hell happened?" he wondered, bending to pick up a few of the scattered papers. The superfluous gesture did no more to draw out the young man than his coughing had, and he shrugged to himself. Walking over to a counter against the west wall, he dropped them there, casting another glance at Peter. "You're gonna have to log a lot of hours to make up for this, you know that, right?"

Peter sniffed, his chin dipping closer to his chest and a shuddering gasp coming out. Tony's brow furrowed. What had happened to the kid to make him do all that damage? Why did he do it?

"You're supposed to be in Queens right now, unless you've suddenly moved since the last time I saw ya," he said, gentling his tone despite the attempt at levity. Striding closer, he peered down at the boy, shocked to see that he was shaking. "What's going on?"

Peter's darkening eyes shimmered with tears, his jaw twitching as he ground his teeth. Hands were firmly laced together, their quivering barely repressed as he sat on the stool, awaiting his punishment. When nothing came, he risked a glance up at the billionaire. Compassion was in the older man's gaze, and it caused something to crack within him.

"Tony...Mr. Stark, I, I..." he stuttered, brown hair flopping into his eyes. His throat constricted harshly, and he was unsure that he was even able to breathe.

"What's wrong?" Tony reiterated, coming even closer. Hesitantly, he reached out, his hand patting his shoulder lightly. "C'mon, Pete, talk to me."

In between the gasps and the suppressed sobs, Peter was able to sputter, "...It's all my fault, all my fault."

"What's your fault?" the older man nearly whispered. What kind of trouble had the young man gotten into? How in the world did _Peter Parker_ get into trouble in the first place? It had to be bad, given the state of the laboratory; it could've been chalked up to pique or unresolved anger issues, but Peter had never, ever displayed those characteristics before.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Peter shuddered once more before speaking. "Uncle Ben...he's dead. I killed him."

Tony's jaw loosened, and his dark gaze went wide. "What?"

It came out slowly, haltingly. The kid had been sneaking out for the past month, heading into the city to partake of the underground wrestling circuit on the weekends after his guardians were asleep. His uncle, suspicious of the teen's antics, had followed him out, catching him just as he was about to go in to watch a match. They had been on their way home, walking to catch the next train and Peter receiving a lecture about his behavior, when it happened. Screams, the sounds of panic, surrounded them. People rushing by and out of the way as a couple of guys brandished guns. The panic flooding around them as they crashed into Peter and Ben. His uncle shielded him as they were threatened, his military training kicking in to defend his young nephew. The thugs took a few good hits, and dealt some in return. And then...a gunshot. Ben was on the ground, bleeding, and the lowlife thugs were running. Someone else on the street had called the police, an ambulance, but the kid had been unable to do more than grab his uncle's hand and beg him to hang on.

He was gone by the time they were halfway to the hospital, the ride in the bus blurring after that.

The grim lines in Tony's face stood out in the harsh lighting above as he listened, his jaw tightening as Peter spilled out all he could remember. Looking up at the older man, Peter's expression grew more agitated, taking the look on his face as reproof.

"I know, it's my fault. If I had just stayed home...he, he wouldn't be..." he choked out then. Eyes widened as he considered something else, and he croaked, "And Aunt May...oh, God..."

At that moment, Tony gripped both his shoulders, the grasp anchoring the boy. Bending a little at the waist, he looked at the youngster directly, forcing him to maintain the contact.

"Hey, listen to me: this isn't your fault, okay? It's the other guy's, for choosing to pull the trigger." At his words, the teen's face finally crumpled, and he would've fallen off the stool had Tony not caught him. Tears poured down Peter's face, equal parts sorrow and shame fueling the cascade. Instead of being chastised for crying like a baby, Peter was allowed to let his immense sadness flow forth without censure. And for his part, Tony felt the empathetic pain rip through him, knowing exactly what it was like to lose someone that important, to lose someone that he loved. It took a few minutes for the sobs to drop in decibel, but when they did, Tony spoke up again. Biting his lip for a second, he carefully murmured, "Ben...well, I didn't know him, but I know you, and he did, too. You're not a bad kid; you're a teenager, but you aren't built to actually hurt anyone. He knew that you didn't mean for it to happen. In all likelihood, he probably saw it as the right thing to do: protecting you from being shot, instead. You didn't kill your uncle, kiddo. That's not on you. He wouldn't...he wouldn't blame you. I don't blame you."

The silence stretched for several long minutes, with Peter struggling to get his breath back. When he did, he lifted his pale face, finding reassurance and sympathy in Tony's eyes.

"This is not your fault." He looked at the teen expectantly, waiting for the kid to indicate that he had at least heard, if not listened. Sluggishly, the boy nodded, and the billionaire exhaled sharply. "Alright. Now it's time to get you back to your aunt. Where...where did they...?"

Peter flinched again, understanding what he was trying to ascertain.

"St. Mary's Hospital," he replied, the name of the hospital wherein his uncle's corpse resided causing a shiver to wrack him. Guiltily, his vision focused on the toe of his shoe. "When they were calling her in, I ran."

Stark arched an eyebrow. That particular hospital was miles away, and to make the trip from Midtown and back...

"You ran all the way from St. Mary's to here?"

The twitch at the corner of the teen's mouth was the closest he could get to smiling ruefully. "...I think I hitched in the back of a truck at some point. She's been calling me non-stop since she found out I left."

He took his cell phone out of his pocket, holding it out to let the older man see. Sure enough, the screen was lit up with missed notifications, voice mails and text messages littering the device. Tony just looked at him, and he shrugged off the nagging feeling that had resurfaced then.

"Too afraid to talk to her," the older man stated, a world of experience lying behind the words. Flicking his fingers at the boy, he muttered, "Gimme the phone."

Dialing back, the older man was in low-voiced conference with the woman on the other end of the line, letting her know of her nephew's safety and health. At some point she must have asked how he had gotten there, and without missing a beat, Tony told her that he had called him for help, and that he'd been in his care in that time. Grateful for that, Peter shivered again, arms tightening around his middle as he awaited his fate. In less than five minutes, Stark tapped his thumb to end the call, tossing the device back to the kid lackadaisically. Lightning fast, Peter's hand shot out to catch it, tucking it away swiftly. Tony watched him for another second or two, clearing his throat before hooking his thumb at the doorway.

"Okay, I'm taking you home," he told him. When the teenager did not move from his seat, he sighed. Stepping over to him, he took the boy by the elbow, guiding him away from the stool and out of the destruction he had wrought. It could be dealt with another time. "Come on, she's waiting for you."

To say the car ride from the Tower to the little house in Queens was tense was something of an understatement. There was still so much left unsaid, things that could not be expressed, pain that could not be assuaged with a few words and a good cry. The boy wasn't healed, and the broken man who was bringing him home was unable to pick up the pieces for him. As hard of a pill as it was to swallow, Stark knew that time was going to be the only thing that would dull the heartache, the hurt, the what-ifs that would forever be unanswered. Following the GPS directions given by JJ fluidly, the vehicle came to a stop in front of a little white house, fourth in the row along the north end of the street. The porch light was on, the figure of a woman pacing in the front room as she was backlit by lamps. Noting the new arrival, the figured paused, peering out as both man and boy exited the sports car. Tony walked the kid up the path, intent on getting him physically to the house and into his aunt's care. Politely, the older man knocked on the door, not wanting to barge in. Not that night, at least.

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," Peter whispered, scrubbing his face hard and sniffling. Shuffling and lock clicks came from the other side of the panels, and the kid's shoulders tightened in preparation.

"You're welcome," Tony managed to return before the door flew open, a blur of brunette hair and thin arms wrapping themselves around the poor kid. The boy, though he had been scared to even speak to her before that moment, immediately melted into her embrace, hugging her back fiercely and burying his face into her shoulder. Awkwardly, Tony took a step back, mind churning and tapping his fingers along the pockets of his jeans as the little family before him held on to one another.

"Peter, thank God! The police have been looking all over for you, I was so afraid..." May Parker cried, holding the kid tightly for a few more moments, some muffled words pouring out of the kid into her shoulder. Drawing back, she cupped his face, asking him if he was okay. The barest nod was given in response, the fast flow of distress and sorrow running between them. After a moment or two, she let him go, curling a hand around his wrist before he could escape into the house. Turning to face Tony, he blinked in surprise. She was not as old as he pictured her to be; honestly she might even have been his junior by a few years. Fixing her liquid brown gaze onto his, she attempted to remain strong even with the tear-streaks lining her face. "Thank you for bringing him home."

Scratching his neck, the billionaire coughed and straightened his spine.

"No sweat. I, uh...I'm sorry. For, well..." he let his speech trail off, the sharp flit of heartbreak flashing across her irises even as she dipped her chin in acceptance. Canting his head, he cleared his throat, flicking a few fingers back towards his car. "I'll just be going."

The thought that had been sitting in his mind grew, and before he'd gotten a few steps away, he stopped. Half-turning back towards them, he fixed his gaze onto Peter, a decision reached.

"Oh, and, uh, I know this is pretty poor timing, but I figured you should know." When the teenager quirked his eyebrows, he explained, "If you still want the lab assistant position with me, it's yours."

Confusion bloomed over both his aunt's face and his own, but she was able to speak up first.

"Lab assistant?"

Maintaining his gaze on the boy, Tony said, "Yeah. I know you and my PA have been going back and forth about it, might as well cut out the middle man."

His eyebrow rose the barest fraction, and he hoped against hope the kid would prove his intelligence and catch on. He might not be able to make the pain go away, or change the past, but he could at least give the kid somewhere to go.

Thankfully, Peter slowly nodded, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. "That is...thank you, Mr. Stark."

Tony nodded once more, pivoting on his heel and feeling the tiniest part of his own aching recede with each step. They didn't have to suffer, either of them.

"See you whenever you're ready to start, kid," he called over his shoulder, climbing back into his vehicle and driving off into the night.

* * *

 **A/N:** A bittersweet chapter this time around. Probably to counteract the Christmas fluff that is inevitably on the docket. :)

Sorry being a little late with this chapter. I got sick, tried to heal fast and then had a wedding to attend, so my free time for writing was taken up. Slowly but surely, I'm getting better...Hope the longer chapter makes up for the delay.

I think the process of pregnancy would be interesting to Steve. Particularly as men were not expected to be part of it at all back in his day, and then he's thrust into a time where it's so encouraged for men to take an active role. Also, there are a lot of considerations to make in regards to him and children. Mainly in what fun illnesses and conditions he'd pass on, or even if he would after undergoing Rebirth (dude was a genetic fun-bag of all the bad things, really). My personal understanding of it is that he basically underwent a genetic rewrite via SSS and Vita-rays, with all his ailments and conditions eradicated. It wasn't just a simple blood treatment he got back in the day; Steve was, quite literally, rebuilt from the ground up. In my reasoning, that means he was "recoded", and that code is what he will be passing onto his children, rather than if he remained as his skinny, small self. Sorry if I talked in a redundant circle, but to me, assigning any of his past conditions to a future child, when he may not even carry the coding in his DNA any longer, doesn't seem quite right. Also, this is a superhero fanfiction. Disbelief, suspension, et cetera. I'm no geneticist, biologist, or any sort of doctor (which is probably incredibly obvious). If I was, I doubt I'd have any time to write this at all.

I promise, I won't make you guys go through every little ailment and doctor's appointment that Holly will have to have during her pregnancy. Just the first one to set up what her life is going to involve over the next nine months.

Things are still tense around the base, but some people are still reaching out to Bucky in some ways. Some definitely more than others. ;) Slow going there...And yeah, I'm a bastard for offing Ben Parker. But hey, canonically, this is about the time he would have died. I just wanted to give Peter somewhere (and someone) to go to...especially now. It's something Tony needs, too, sadly enough.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text ( _Star Wars_ , etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	11. Chapter 11

"Hey, Buck."

The familiar voice cut across the ex-assassin's private musings, drawing him out of his haze. He'd spent the majority of his Sunday like that: buried deep in his mind, puttering around his room with the buzz of memories and anxiety humming at the edges. It seemed that he spent a lot of time in his mind, behavior that he knew wasn't healthy (or so said his therapist, which had made him actually laugh when she spouted that). Hours slid by, the sun coasting through the sky with no notice taken by him. Bucky did have quite a bit to think about those days, plans that he could make, thoughts that he could afford to have, and sometimes even the blissful peace of nothingness. At the moment, he was seated at his borrowed desk, pen in hand as he stared straight ahead. Another nightmare had come upon him, and he'd been adamant in continuing his detailed documentations, page after page filling with the inked blood of his victims. The innocuous notebook was flipped open, the new record out for all to see. His attention, though had been grabbed by the photos tacked up on the wall before him. The wedding photos Steve had sent him were a little worn around the sides, but they otherwise remained in good condition. He tore his blue gaze away from the brunet man standing by the captain and pointing at something in the distance, from the redhead giving a flirtatious wink to the camera, and swiveled in his seat to face the intruder.

Steve stood there, arms crossed and resting against the open door jamb. He was still dressed in his Sunday best, though the buttons at the collar had been popped. He and his wife had attended a church not too far from the house, and often invited him to go along whenever they had the chance to attend, but that morning they had taken his silence as an obvious declination. Another Sunday of missed services, a feminine voice in the back of his mind clicking her tongue at him, another Sunday spent wallowing in his sins instead of seeking forgiveness for them.

"Hey," he said instead, dropping the pen and forcing himself to grin. "You need something?"

His friend's answering smile looked strained as well. Tipping a palm out, he inquired, "You got a minute to talk?"

Slowly, Bucky nodded, shutting his notebook and sighing. "Sure."

Gesturing for Steve to come in, he waited as Steve seated himself on the edge of his bed, carefully avoided the sweats and dirty t-shirt he had left atop the comforter. Mildly amused by his friend's obvious distaste, he said nothing about it. Rather, he listened as Steve began to speak. With Christmas coming upon them in a few short days, he wanted him to know about the plans he and his wife were making. It seemed that her family had responded to his invitation of coming out to New York for the holiday, and they would be staying in the house as well. They were good people, not violent or boisterous, but they were civilians. They were ignorant of his existence, save as a friend who had needed a place to stay after enduring problems in his personal life (Bucky's eyebrows rose at that, at the lack of full disclosure given to them). All of them would be in close quarters for a minimum of a week.

"What I want to know, is what you'd like to do," Steve said point-blank, a thumb tapping along his thigh as he spoke. Flicking the fingers of his free hand in the air, he assured him, "We have the two rooms upstairs open for them, so they won't always be on top of you. Space really isn't an issue."

"Isn't it?" Bucky asked bluntly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. The rise of indignation and worry seeped into his person. It had been mentioned some time ago that his friend intended to bring the in-laws out to the house. And while he was stable for the moment, there was no guarantee that he would remain so. "You sure her family won't need space?"

And the tiniest, evilest part of his brain goaded him into thinking he would be intruding, as well. At once, Steve's brow furrowed as if he'd heard the whispers of his mind.

"You need it, too," he asserted, looking him squarely in the eye. Sighing, he rubbed at the back of his neck, mimicking Bucky's posture in that moment. "Holly and I talked about it, and ultimately, we would like everyone to be there. But we know that that...might not happen." The inherent honesty in him had forced out the concession, and in turn both men exhaled sharply. Another balancing act was upon them, and Bucky had to wonder if he would be able to meet that challenge. Off his noncommittal shrug, Steve went on, "If you don't think you'll be comfortable around them, then you can at least stay in the guest quarters at the base, and just come to the house during the day. Until they head back home on the twenty-eighth, at least. The decision is yours."

Several long seconds were spent in quiet, the creaks and groans of the house settling occupying the space. It was hardly a life-or-death mission that they would be embarking on, but Bucky knew that the situation wouldn't exactly be the easiest for any involved. Steve's declaration of wanting to include him went quite a ways, but he had other things to consider besides himself.

"I'm not sure they'd be comfortable around me," he stated, snorting and grinning ruefully. "Given my lack of sociability, and previous occupation."

"It's not sociability that's the problem with you. And far as the latter goes, the amount they know about you is your business. We won't tell them anything you don't want us to." Steve's affirmations were met with a skeptical glance, and he raised an eyebrow at Bucky. "They might have some questions, though, no matter what you do, just because you're around."

They shared a smirk at that, but the ex-assassin's slipped away swiftly as he continued to turn over the options in his mind.

"I dunno, Steve. I would like to stay, but, I mean...these are your in-laws," Bucky said, leaning back in his seat. They were his wife's family. And Holly, while she was not outright cold to him after the situation with Stark went down, wasn't exactly his greatest ally. It could cause irreparable damage just to even stay in the house for any length of time, especially for her. While they weren't the greatest of friends, he did at least respect her position in the matter. "I don't want to make things worse."

"You wouldn't be," piped up a voice from the door. Lifting his head, he was met with the sight of Holly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweater and her dark eyes looking at him directly. She wasn't exactly the lightest of foot, and he had heard her coming down the stairs, but he hadn't expected her to come into the conversation, to hear him. To understand. But in her gaze, under the layers of uncertainty and anxiousness, was the spark of compassion. Upon letting him into her home, she had been truthful with him, stating plainly that if she ever did not want him there, she would tell him herself. It appeared that she was holding true to her word; there he remained, and would remain if he so wished. Barring any unfortunate circumstances, but that went without saying. Raising her chin almost in defiance of his disbelief, she pronounced, "If you want to stay, then stay. Whatever you want to do, I can deal with it."

Bucky was agape for a few moments, a little taken aback by her forthrightness. In his peripherals, the warm glance that Steve shot her was unmistakable, even as he affected his stoic expression. The pallor of her face lessened as he continued to stare, the red flushing up into her cheeks. It wasn't as if she was ignorant of the consequences either way; frankly, it surprised him that she hadn't insisted on taking the easy way out. Then again, she never really struck him as an 'easy way out' sort of person.

She had faith, despite her misgivings, and she had told him as much. Perhaps it was time for him to have faith, too.

"...Well, if she's all for it, who am I to say no?" he told Steve facetiously, earning a grunt of laughter from him and a wry twist of the lips from her. The joviality faded as he dipped his chin, his fingers threading together as he looked back at her. "Thank you."

The sincerity in his tone seemed to catch her off-guard, the minor flinch of her brow hard to miss. Still, she inclined her head, a corner of her mouth turning up and her hands tucking into her pockets. Darting his gaze from one to the other, Steve let out a slow breath, standing up and pulling out his wallet. A blank white card with a single chip was slid out, and he passed it into Bucky's hands.

Flipping the card over, the ex-assassin raised an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"In case you decide it might be too much. This'll get you into the apartments at the back of the base, as far as the guest quarters are situated," the captain told him. The look on his face reflected a form of discomfort, and he carded a hand through his hair. "Mrs. Martin, Lisa...she can kinda..."

"Be a hassle?" Bucky supplied, secreting the card away. Steve canted his head to the right, his brow screwing up in thought.

"She's more likely to smother you than anything else. If you're not careful, I mean."

Barnes, who had not been around any sort of mothering figure in over seventy years, could only take him at his word.

"Guess I better tread lightly, then."

"Watch it," Holly warned, pointing a finger at the two of them and wagging it. "That is my mother you're talking about."

"Yes, dear," Steve retorted in mock compliance, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter as she rolled her eyes and walked away. Smiling softly, he remarked, "It's kinda nice, though, for the first little while. Reminds me of Mom."

The wistfulness bit hard at Bucky, the want for his own mother rising quickly. The sharpness poked and prodded him, a half-remembered face with his eyes and a tired joy resurfacing in that moment. Her name was lost to him, but he did know her, and it hurt to think of her loss.

"That might not be so bad," he said, the longing a bittersweet flavor in his words.

Steve cupped a palm in the air, trying to assuage the sadness in whatever way he could. "Eh, maybe not. You'll see."

Bucky tipped his head back, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments. Another thought occurred to him, and he wasn't about to let it sit.

"She has a brother, too, right?" he asked, the innocence in looking for clarification not lasting as his bright eyes glimmered. The uncomfortableness from before flooded Steve's face. The leading nature of the question put him on guard, knowing full well that Barnes was about three seconds away from teasing him. A wave of nostalgia hit him then, less pleasant than it was...expected.

"Yes. An older brother."

At once, the ex-assassin's eyes lit up, so much of his former self flooding him that it nearly banished the darkness of the morning.

"I gotta see this," he breathed, an evil smile stretching his lips as he sat up straighter. "Stevie Rogers on the hook with a gal's brother."

"It really isn't all that funny," the captain groaned, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. Frankly, beyond the initial first meeting, he was on good terms with his brother-in-law. So many people seemed to expect something akin to a brawl to happen every time they met. And so many people liked to see him squirm in that regard; his best friend, it seemed had just joined that list. Scathingly, he admonished, "Besides, you missed the real grilling last year, anyway."

Bucky nodded, his decision made fully in that instant. "So he'll have stories. Her dad, too, I bet. That might be worth sticking around for."

Harrumphing loudly, Steve just scoffed at his friend's dark laughter as he walked away.

 **xXxXxXx**

Holly awoke with a start on the morning of Tuesday the twenty-second, her internal alarm clock screaming at her. Peering at the digital clock on the bedside table, her heart gave a great thump when she realized what time it was. It was a little after eight o'clock in the morning, well after the time she was supposed to be up and getting ready for the day. She was going to be late for work, was already late by her standards. Melanie was going to hand her ass over to her on a plate, she…

Slowly, her mind caught up with her panic. Of course she had slept in, because she was on vacation. Sharp breaths gusted out of her mouth, though the intensity of them had petered off. For all the differences and complaints that the job could inspire, it was rather good of the company to allow the office workers up to a week of paid time off for Christmas alone. Not many of them took that many days off, of course, but given that she was just a junior archivist, and one who had just come off of a majorly time-consuming project (finally, finally the files about Baron Von Strucker were sorted and placed correctly), it wouldn't do her any harm to take the time.

Blinking blearily, she realized she wasn't alone in the bed, like she normally was on the weekday mornings. Rolling over, she peered at her companion, raking a hand through her hair (or the rat's nest that called itself that). Steve was there, clad in his gray, plaid pajama pants and an old SHIELD t-shirt. He was sitting up, his back against the headboard and his legs acting as an impromptu table as he shaded in a figure in his sketchbook. The on-call period for the holiday started for him that day, so he was not required to go to the base unless it was an emergency. Evidently, that morning there was no emergency, and so he was able to do as he pleased. And, like him, the team was splitting to go their separate ways, the hurt and the suspicion of the last several weeks enough of a motivator to make them go. A change of pace was needed for them all, and they grabbed at it while there was the chance.

Concentrating on the sketch he was working on, it took him a few moments to realize she was watching him. He'd felt her shift, of course, but he didn't think she'd be staring at him so intently. Spying her out the corner of his eye, he smirked a little at her tangle of hair, and went on blithely drawing as she rubbed the sleep crust from her eyes. Her mumbled greeting was met with a hum by him, his smile growing warmer as she sat up and pecked him on the cheek. Yawning widely, she directed her gaze to the window along the wall, the curtains opened to let in the morning light, such as it was.

"It's snowing," she announced, the back of her hand tilted to guard against her dragon breath. It was true; thick, heavy flakes were falling just beyond the glass, yet another drop coming upon them in the season. It was destined to join the blanket already coating the ground and the trees, adding the several inches that had already accumulated over the last few weeks. His bright eyes turned to follow the path of hers, nodding once before he returned to the paper in his hands.

"Mm, so we're taking the truck in, then," he muttered, biting his lip as he accidentally went a touch too dark on the stroke. Tucking the pencil behind his ear, he fetched up the eraser off the nightstand, scrubbing away the error as best he could. Blowing away the shavings, he continued, "Good to know."

Shaking her head, Holly tried to tame her hair once more, fingers working through the sleep-knots that had cropped up. Still achy and tired, she swiped at her eyes one more time before she started to shuffle towards the edge of the bed.

"We should probably start getting ready to go," she said, attempting to motivate herself to take a shower. They had to go get her family; they weren't about to subject them to a hired taxi taking them out into the boondocks without any form of protection. It was just ludicrous, and so they would do it themselves. She paused as the roll of her stomach gurgled then, and she felt the mattress dip behind her. Strong arms wrapped gently around her, pulling her against the solid heat of her husband's chest, his sketches abandoned for the time being.

"Their flight doesn't come in until noon. We've got plenty of time," he reminded her, tipping his head towards the clock before nuzzling at the side of her neck. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, and with the press of his hands at her hips, she let him pull her back from the edge.

"For what?" she asked instead, allowing him to guide her to lie back down. She accepted his affections gladly, greedily soaking them in.

"For staying in bed, and staying warm," he pronounced, pulling up the bedclothes around them. He rested on his side, propped up by an elbow so he could look down at her. The drawing he had been working on, a sketch of the very woman beside him in the midst of her slumber, could be finished at a later time. Her eyebrows arched at his words, and she blew out a whistle.

"Wow, you're being lazy? Color me shocked," she gasped in mock astonishment. The deadpan expression he shot her had her breaking her façade and laughing outright.

"Be proud that you've lived to see this day," he retorted with faux seriousness, threading a few fingers into the strands of her hair. In response, she reached out and tousled his blond locks, knocking them askew.

"I am, sweetheart, trust me," she promised him. Adjusting under the sheets, she glanced at her stomach. "We'll see how long I can hold out."

At once, a frown puckered Steve's face. "Not feeling good?"

Holly inhaled sharply, shrugging back into the bed. Despite her insistence that she was not a breakable object, she couldn't deny the impact pregnancy was having on her. The fatigue and aching was being dealt with, but it was the onset nausea that really threw her for a loop.

"I'm okay for now, but who knows when it will hit," she groused, a knowing look passing between husband and wife. Both of them were becoming all too familiar with her newly-acquired queasiness. Huffing, she passed her hand over her brow. "Whoever decided it should exclusively be called 'morning sickness' deserves a punch in the face."

"I'll do it for you," he replied, mouth twisting. It would be simpler all around if she actually could be rid of it at the earliest possible moment of the day, but that apparently wasn't in the cards for her. "Would be best not to put either of you in danger that way."

"Ha," was the apt rejoinder. For several long minutes, they basked in one another's presence, pecks and touches pressed to hands and faces every now and again. (In spite of Holly's protestations that she hadn't brushed her teeth yet, Steve still leaned down for a kiss. When finished, he drew back and definitely asserted that she would need to do so, soon. That earned him a grimace and a smack on the arm.) Propping up her pillow to sit up and elevate herself better, she chewed her lip for a second or two. She'd been mulling over an idea, one she felt was worthy of consideration, and she felt it would be best to discuss it then. "We should probably talk about that."

Steve tilted his head to the side. "About what?"

"Well, given how I've progressed to some oh-so-pleasant symptoms, it will be basically impossible to hide those from my family," she pointed out, muting her wince as best she could. It was difficult enough keeping the secret at work; twice she'd had to sneak out her own trash can due to unbidden vomiting, and she endured a few questioning glances as she walked in visibly exhausted every day. It was only a matter of time before the whispers became direct questions, and when the sneaking glances would turn into stares. Flicking her gaze up at the ceiling, she mumbled, "God knows how we've been able to keep James in the dark for this long."

Steve's mouth became a grim line when she uttered that. His friend had been preoccupied not only with the fallout between him and Stark, but Fury had also decreed his final trials to take place upon the new year. He had very little time left to train before submitting to an examination board to declare his ability and competency. Between all that and improving his relations with the team, it did not surprise him that Bucky was still ignorant of the situation, as far as he knew. Although, to be fair, he did suspect something was going on, and said as much to Steve over breakfast several days back. Part of him wondered if his friend enjoyed watching him fidget under his gaze, that knowing glint in his eyes that told him that, after all that time, he still knew when Rogers was bullshitting him.

"My mom will know something is up, for sure, and we'll be in close proximity for the next several days," Holly continued to speak, plucking at the comforter tucked around her. Steve sighed, conceding to the truth of that; her mother was an inquisitive one, and observant. She could pick up on nuances, particularly when it came to her own children. Combing her hair to fall on one side, she stammered, "We, we should probably tell them."

There wasn't much he could say to that. With Holly unable to ingest something even as basic as caffeine, which had been a staple in her life for so long, someone would get suspicious. Privately, he figured they could probably get away with it for maybe two days before her mother would pull her aside, ask if anything were going on.

"...If you're sure, then okay. We'll tell them," he agreed, rubbing a hand up and down her arm. Exhaling, he dropped his gaze to her belly, fingers moving to traipse across the material of her shirt before laying his palm flat against the slight swell. Dipping his chin, he murmured, "We had a good, three-week run with just us and you, Bump."

"Disregarding the five beforehand we didn't know about it, huh?" Holly chuckled, raising herself up onto her elbows and shaking her head. A thought occurred to her, and she furrowed her brow in amused befuddlement. "Bump?"

Steve shrugged a shoulder, his thumb brushing back and forth over her belly. "We don't know if it's a boy or a girl. All we know is that the baby will be bumping out fairly quickly here. So, Bump it is."

A single, decisive nod followed before he grinned down at her. Snickering, she laid her hand atop his, breathing out slowly. Worse nicknames could have been chosen, and she couldn't help but think it was sweet. It would do, in the interim. At least ten more weeks, and then they would know for sure.

Risking a glance downward, she wondered, "Is it obvious already?"

"To me, it is. Because I know," he told her, noting the brief flicker of discomfort in her irises. At that point, it merely looked like she had just put on a little weight around her middle, not enough to be of concern. Holly had never been a tiny woman, so it would hide for a little longer, at least. "But I don't think anybody else suspects."

Holly snorted outright at that. "If that's the case, then Wanda must be giving me the side-eye whenever we're in the same room for another reason."

Rapidly blinking, Steve felt a little heat smattering along his cheeks. He hadn't noticed _that_. Wanda always looked at people like she knew their deepest secrets just from the briefest glance; truth was, she most likely did. And evidently Holly suspected she had an inkling regarding the coming child as well.

"Oh. Uh..." he trailed off, coughing once. "She hasn't said anything to me."

"Of course not." Raising her eyebrows, Holly playfully posited, "How likely is it that she'll walk up to her team leader and accuse him of knocking up his wife?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he fell back against his own pillow, letting out a short breath.

"You'd be surprised," he retorted mildly. Though it was obvious that of the two, Wanda was the subtler Maximoff twin, that didn't necessarily means she didn't have her blunt moments. Lowering his hand, he shot Holly a look as the rest of her statement registered. "And do you have to say it like that?"

A lopsided grin decorated her lips. "Did I ruin the happy, magical moment we were having?"

"Considering we're both still in bed and nothing's happened...nope," Steve replied. Wedging his arm underneath her, his prompt caused her to roll over somewhat into his embrace. Complying, she settled on her side, her head nestling onto his chest. Placidly, he sighed, "Still happy."

She hummed at that, her fingers tapping against his shirt. It made her pleased and relieved to hear it. After the last few weeks of doubt and resentment, a part of her heart was eased to know that he at least had a haven with her, still. It may not have been perfect, but it still was enough to combat the troubles of his mind. However, she couldn't resist another moment of cheek.

"…You left off the magical."

A groan bubbled out of him, and she giggled silently as she looked up in time to see him rolling his eyes. Reaching down, he gave her a playful pinch just above her hip. It was not enough to hurt, but it was enough to make her jump and yelp in surprise.

"Knock it off, you're nitpicking."

A few more minutes passed, in which she retaliated with her prodding his ticklish spots along his sides and him squirming beneath her touch. Soon enough, they had reached an impasse, settling for soaking in the warmth of each other's bodies and the heavy sheets on the bed as they rested. The swelling of her heart, consistently growing over in spite of the onslaught, compelled Holly to raise herself up and plant a kiss at the corner of Steve's mouth. Her hair fell forward, a tickling curtain against the column of his neck.

"Thank you," she nearly whispered when she ended it. His bright eyes narrowed in confusion, but the little grin he sported had remained in place.

"You're welcome…why are you thanking me?" he asked, wondering if he was looking a gift horse in the mouth just for putting forth the question. Her gaze flicked away and back for a couple of seconds, and she toyed with the collar of his shirt.

"Because you set all this up. Bringing everyone out here, and, well…" she let the statement trail away, emotion rising in her again. It was hard, not being able to see her family for another holiday, for Steve not to have the ability to get away with her. Time and again, she reinforced her support of him, her belief in his work, knowing that it would not always allow them to get away, free them to travel wherever and whenever they liked. To counteract a repeat of her deflation over Thanksgiving, he had taken it upon himself to open their home to her parents and siblings, inviting them to celebrate with them out in New York. While Heather and her husband were unable to make the trip, her brother, mom, and dad had elected to take him up on the offer. Noticing the sweep of emotion and the tremor of her chin, he reached up, smoothing it with the pad of his thumb.

"It's not something you have to thank me for," he asserted tenderly, any protestations that she could have brought up being brushed to the side. Looking at her squarely, he affirmed aloud, "We're all family now, may as well act like it. Best way to do that is to have them come around."

Her dark gaze filled with affection and appreciation. "Practical and sentimental. I like that about you, Steve Rogers."

Smirking up at her, he slid his hand to her neck, the fingers crooking around the back.

"That magical enough for you?" he inquired, eyes closing as he drew her down. Soon enough, he claimed her lips, sweet sips taken in between her giggles.

"You know what would really be magical?" she returned facetiously, pulling back enough to look him in the eye. His eyebrow spiked, and she hastened to answer, "A never-ending IV drip of coffee that's permanently attached to me."

A bark of laughter shot out of him then, a placating buss placed on her cheek as she frowned. Caffeine was something the doctor had told her must be strictly regulated while pregnant, and while she came to the decision of just giving it up altogether for the sake of the baby, it still was not an easy one to make.

"Can't help you with that one, Princess," he teased her, his arm curling around her shoulders as she settled back into his embrace again. Ignoring her grumbles into his chest about the nickname, he wrapped his other arm around her as well, treasuring the moments of closeness while they lasted. "Guess this will have to do."

Another fake grumble, and she burrowed into his heat. Tiredly, her eyelids drooped—the man was practically a walking heating pad, and she couldn't help but soak it up, let it soothe her. There was still time, she mused, before they absolutely had to get dressed and on the road. Just a few more minutes in Steve's arms, and then they would get up.

"I suppose," she replied, the press of her ear against his chest allowing her to hear the rising sigh of contentment as it washed through him.

 **xXxXxXx**

The flight into Albany from Minnesota was over an hour late as it was, Holly receiving both a lackadaisical text from her brother to report the developments and a call from her mother on top of that. In the end, she and Steve had the chance to run a couple of errands before the airplane finally landed. The captain chose to stay out in the pick-up area, the truck's engine rumbling as she climbed out. Intent on finding the correct baggage claim, the churning of her stomach finally caught up with her, forcing her to beat a hasty retreat to the nearest bathrooms. She managed to keep everything until she made it into an empty stall, the door locked quickly behind her before she was forced to worship at the porcelain altar. The remnants of breakfast coursed up and out, and she shuddered as the vomit burned her throat. Morning sickness, her ass, she mused morosely, the thought all too common. How did her mother put up with it? Not just once, but three times? She had a feeling that by the end of it all, she would definitely have a better appreciation for her mother's trials and tribulations in bringing three children into the world. Soon enough, she was finished with her offerings, exiting the stall with a pale face and fire in her eyes. Another woman was still in the bathroom washing her hands, shooting her a look of sympathy as she rinsed out her mouth and splashed water onto her face. Blood rushed back up when she realized she'd had an audience to her plight, and she moved as swiftly as possible to get out of there.

Following her brother's texted instructions and wandering down to Baggage Claim C (desperately chewing a few sticks of the mint gum she always kept on hand now), she filtered through the crowds. The holiday travelers were pushing and pulling to get their things and away to either the next concourse or to catch a cab out of there. After a minute or two of searching, she spotted a bulky, red-flanneled coat, the young man wrapped in it running a hand through his dark hair. His face turned in profile, allowing her to note how his scruff had thickened for the winter, his hazel eyes scanning the area as he stood sentry beside a gathering of suitcases. Pausing until he looked away again, she sidled up to him carefully, her footfalls lost in the mill of the people around them.

"You looking for something?" she crowed when she got close enough, standing on the balls of her feet to get herself closer to his ear. On reflex, the fellow jumped away, a high-pitched shriek flying out of his mouth. Dropping back onto the flat of her feet, she brought her hands up to smother her laughter. Pressing a hand to his heart, he turned to look at her, and his gaze narrowed in a glare.

"Holy shit, Holl!" Hank cried, an arm wrapping around her shoulders and bringing her in for a hug. Laughing into the scratchy material of his coat, she glanced up at her brother, all too delighted in catching him out like he'd done to her in the past. Another admonishment fell from his lips as they parted, but her response was lost as her mother and father returned then, both of them having gone to look for her. She passed from Lisa to Paul, so grateful they had agreed to Steve's plan in coming out.

"Where's Steven?" her father asked then, cramming a knit cap over his salt-and-pepper hair as he let her go. Her mother's silvered blonde hair swung around as she looked as well, concurring with his question.

"Out with the truck, keeping the spot we snagged," she explained, taking his words at the cue to leave. "Which we should probably get out to."

Leading the way out of the baggage claim and up the escalator to the pick-up area, chatter passed between them all. After boarding at the international airport in St. Paul, the pilot had announced that not enough gas had been put in the plane, and so they had to cycle back and fuel up. Her mother groused, with a glimmer in her gaze, about the number of crying babies being brought up by one as Hank had fretted over the delay, to which he rolled his eyes and mock-laughed. ("Yeah, Mom, that's right. Deflect onto me; you don't sound guilty at all," he grumbled, and Lisa merely twitched the collar of his coat before zipping up her own.) At the door, they all worked quick to get gloves and scarves on, ready to meet the icy chill of the day. Pointing them down several yards to the spot Steve had claimed, Holly had noticed he had left the cab, pulling back the retractable cover for the box before resting his backside against the door.

"Wow...that is a nice-lookin' vehicle right there," Hank said, his admiring gaze sliding over the truck. The low whistle of appreciation made Steve snicker. After being folded into Lisa's greeting hug and shaking Paul's hand, he wandered over to his brother-in-law.

"Wait until you see all the upgrades," he said, the other man's hazel eyes brightening in curiosity. Palms out, the two exchanged a handshake of their own, and Steve smiled genuinely. "Nice to see you, Hank. No Jodie, huh?"

The tight grin Hank had could not hide his displeasure. He wasn't upset with Steve at all, but he was not happy that his daughter could not spend the holiday with him. As per the custody agreement with his ex-wife, they traded off the major holidays to have Jodie. The eight-year-old had pouted and begged her mother to let her go along, but the woman refused. For all her faults, she did love their daughter, and he couldn't blame her for wanting her time with the little girl. Even if he didn't like it.

"Nope. It was her mother's turn to have her this year," he said aloud, shrugging a shoulder and fiddling with the strap of his bag. Recognizing the muted frustration in his eyes, Steve winced, feeling a little awkward about it.

"Couldn't tempt her with an adventure, huh?" he tried to joke, attempting to smooth over any feathers he may have ruffled with his question. Hank exhaled slowly; he gave the guy points for trying, at least, and so he just tipped his head back.

"Not with Ashley's morbid fear of flying asserting itself," he muttered, frowning up at the cloud cover and the drifting snow falling around them. Bringing his chin down, he merely smirked at his brother-in-law. "Afraid you'll just have to put up with me."

"With all of us, really," Paul piped up then, his dark eyes twinkling in good humor as he hoisted his bag up into the box. Hastily, Steve retreated from Hank's side, apologizing for his poor manners and offering to help him with the remaining suitcases. Freed from her assisting duties, Lisa went back over to her daughter, linking an arm with hers as they approached the cab of the truck.

"Speaking of, do we need to stop anywhere before we go to the house? Get any food or anything?" she asked, a concerned lilt to her voice. Meeting her bright gaze, Holly shook her head in the negative.

"Trust me, Mom, we're stocked up. I feel like I spent my last paycheck solely on food for the next several days," she said, a pained grin coming to her lips. She was unsure how much of a joke that was, truly; the fridge and pantry were stuffed to the brim with everything she could think they would need. After all, it wasn't just her family that would require sustenance. There were two super soldiers in the house to feed as well, along with the hidden addition in her belly.

Hank chuckled, hooking a thumb at Steve as he pushed his duffel in with the bags.

"Just for us, or the human tank here?"

Off his words, her husband pinched the bridge of his nose, almost hiding the wry grin that had cropped up as he slid the cover down and latched it. She gave Hank a watery smile in reply, canting her head to the left.

"A little bit of both," she remarked quietly, opening up the door and ushering her mother to climb into the backseat. She let her gaze wander over the crowds, a glance sideways to her husband as she raised her eyebrows in question. He gave the barest shake of the head as he made his way to the driver's side, and she let out a quiet sigh in relief. They were not being watched or followed, as far as he knew; he must have been able to do a quick sweep while she was gone. Her attention then turned to other matters. She got into a mild debate with her father over who would take the front passenger seat, with her insisting that she would be fine in the back and him equally as adamant that she sit up front with Steve. A palm splayed firmly between her shoulders propelled her and he managed to get her in the seat and the door closed on her arguments. Glancing up at him in the rear-view mirror, she caught the repressed chuckles rocking his shoulders as he slid into the back, flanking Lisa on one side and Hank depositing himself on the other. Pulling away from the airport, the conversation in the truck ebbed and flowed as the company made their way out of the city. Turning onto the highway, the passengers in the back observed the buildings melt away, the flurries of the snow rushing past the windows as the terrain gave way to trees and hills. Spotting the mountain looming far in the distance through the breaks, Paul gave a muted crow in delight, and Hank began to speculate on the kind of hunting they would find up there. Lisa turned her attention onto the pair in front, asking about the plans for the next few days and asking after their work and home life. Holly mostly answered her questions while Steve concentrated on driving, but on occasion he put in his own two cents. The music on the radio had been switched over to a classic rock station, the lyrical undercurrent filtering in between the pauses.

Eventually, the truck was directed off the highway onto some back country roads, glances exchanged between the Martin men as the captain gripped the wheel and shot over a patch of black ice with impressive calm. They didn't know quite what to expect in regards to the house that the youngest of the clan had chosen with her husband; when she'd said that it was a little off the beaten path, she wasn't kidding. The forestry had closed in around them as after several turns brought them further into it all, the tires crunching on snow as it ground past a dark mailbox, the track buried under the accumulation. The slate-blue swatch cut through the gap in the trees, and suddenly a digital display popped up on the windshield. A smooth, accented voice announced that the security system had recognized the vehicle and was ready to be disabled for access. Reaching out, Steve tapped a finger at the controls, disarming the house as they pulled into the garage and struggling to smother the chuckles as his in-laws gasped behind him. Pulling smoothly into the garage, it was a simple matter of course to take out the suitcases and bring them up the back steps, codes punched in and entry granted. The heat of the kitchen enveloped them, banishing the cold that had crept up on them between doors. For the moment, they were the only ones home; Steve's friend, he explained, was out for the day, but he would be joining them later for dinner, once he finished up a few errands of his own. One introduction put off, but that was alright. Appreciative eyes ran over the room, a great swell of pride threatening to rise higher in Steve as he witnessed his father-in-law's pleased expression.

Holly brought up the rear of the outfit, occupied with bringing in the few items she and Steve picked up before going to the airport.

"What is in the plastic bags, by the way?" Lisa wondered, pulling off her coat and draping it over the back of a chair. Thinking it may have been more groceries, despite her daughter's insistence otherwise, she made to help her put them away. At once, she shied back, keeping them out of her mother's grasp. A swift glance passed between Steve and Holly, her grip on the bag handles tightening minutely.

"Last-minute presents," she said with a smile, lifting a shoulder and attempting to appear casual. "Couldn't get them until today."

Her brother scoffed, his mouth curving up. "Better be good ones if you're cutting it this close."

One more glance, and Steve cleared his throat, motioning for them to follow him further into the house.

"We think you'll like them."

"I hope," his wife whispered, so low that even he could barely hear her as they went. The upstairs bedrooms were equipped for them. One was a dedicated bedroom space (Steve's old mattress finally had a home, and would likely be better appreciated by Lisa and Paul), while the other was a temporary office. Still, it had a futon and a closet to utilize, and Hank was willing to make due. It seemed that the afternoon proceeded to blur around Steve, the others coming and going as he made checks around the house. He tapped into the security, alerting JJ of the increased capacity of the home and to raise the observance levels accordingly. The nattering of his wife and mother-in-law could be heard from upstairs, Hank's voice intermingling on and off. He didn't know how long it had been, but soon enough Steve sank into the couch, his gaze running tiredly over the small holiday knickknacks decorating the space, the tinsel garlands framing the door and windows, and the fake tree set up in the corner. Recalling the last Christmas he spent with the Martin family, he scrubbed at his face and hair while a weary smile bloomed. Well, at least he could be certain about the lack of threats regarding a door lock that time. And not as many people.

"Not the whole family under one roof, but a good amount," he muttered, finally removing his wool coat and letting it fall around him.

"And it's a good roof, too, from what I could see when we pulled up," Paul said from behind him, the older man leaning his arms on the couch back and nodding stolidly. With a brief grin, he imparted, "The two of you chose well. Solid structure, insulation's in great shape, wiring looks right...this was a good find for both of you."

That meant more to Steve than he could adequately express. Relations with Paul were never bad, but he did not want him to think that his daughter had been made the poorer for choosing him, for choosing the home that they had. As a contractor, he knew good construction when he saw it, and inwardly, he was relieved that to his trained eye, the house was stable. Although, some of the things he mentioned couldn't be easily spotted.

Spiking an eyebrow, Steve laughed, "You go peeking in the crawlspace, Paul?"

It would explain his disappearance over the last few minutes, at least, and the rocking clang of the attic ladder being pulled down. And the musty smell clinging to his person. He'd assumed Holly was showing it off to her parents, but evidently Paul was making his own headway around the house.

"Considerate it the cheapest inspection you'll ever have, Steven," was the response, a wink shot at him as he brought up the miniature flashlight he always had on hand between his fingers. The patriarch of the Martin clan made his way back towards the kitchen and the coffee maker, his son-in-law following with a chuckle and a shake of the head. One afternoon down, six more to go, he mused, indulging his father-in-law and discussing the house's specs in further detail.

 **xXxXxXx**

The training room echoed with thumps and grunts, the lighting shining directly onto the solid mats at the back of the room. The dummies and punching bags strung up in the space were ignored, the space nearly abandoned save for the two trading blows. A flash of red and black whirled, legs curling around the torso of the taller one, metal and flesh arms working to dislodge the attacker. Deliberately falling back, the smaller one released her captive, springing away and rolling to avoid the crush of his body atop hers. Thus freed, he planted his hands firmly into the mat, rotating his hips and spinning out his feet in a fan. Clipping the jut of her hips as she maneuvered, he scrambled up, snatching her arm to twist it back, twist her into submission. In response, she tilted, snapping her foot up and catching him in the chest with her heel and knocking him back. As it was his metal hand clamping around her wrist, his grip did not slacken, but he did grunt as the wind was pushed out of his lungs, and she pressed her advantage. Hooking her ankle behind his knee, she jerked back, causing him to drop sharply. Planting her foot on the bracing leg, she shunted over him, his metal arm pulled up to curl closely around his neck. Breathing harshly, the two opponents froze in their positions, their panting mingling and floating out into the wide space around them. His other hand, the flesh and blood one, tapped the mat three times, the signal to end the bout. Nodding gracefully, Natasha took a half step back as Bucky released her arm, rising from his crouch and letting his metal appendage swing down to his side.

The could have continued the sparring bout for hours, if properly motivated, but as it was, they had settled for the brief time they had. Though he hadn't lost any of his skill during his year and a half spent away from HYDRA's hold, Natasha could tell that Barnes's movements were getting cleaner, more fluid with each training session. She reckoned Fury would be pleased with his progress, and said as much when they wandered off the mat. Bucky had snorted at that, positing that the fellow never struck him as easy to please, and he doubted that very much. Still, he was grateful for the time she was taking to get him back up to speed. The conversation drifted from there, as it always had after training together. At the beginning, it was meant as a way to convey where he needed to polish up his stances, his movements, but several weeks on, it had morphed to allow them both to become a little more personal with each other. More personable.

"What time are you heading out tomorrow?" Bucky asked, fetching up a water bottle and swigging deep from it. A dribble of water dripping down his chin before he wiped it away. Like so many of the others, she would be exiting the stage for the holiday as well, off somewhere that she would not divulge. Natasha sank down on the bench, scrubbing a towel across her brow before answering.

"Flight's scheduled for ten in the morning. Whether or not we leave on time is another matter altogether," she said, a humorless smirk winding its way out of her throat. The heavy snows were making it difficult to get out of the state, but she had made Clint a promise, and would get out to his home one way or another. Glancing up at her companion, she narrowed her gaze slightly. "Why?"

Tipping his head to the side, Bucky palmed the cell phone that had been stationed by the water bottle during their sparring. Giving it a gentle wiggle between his fingers, he let a rueful smile grace his features.

"Well, I got invited to this sort of...outing, with the members of Holly's family tonight. Dinner and a movie, apparently," he professed. He had suspected that Steve and Holly would have something planned, something to ease him into being around her family, and was apparently proven right. Natasha sucked in a breath, having an idea of what he would say next. Lifting a shoulder, he continued, "It, it would be nice to have someone else besides Steve there to talk to. My Christmas gift to you?"

The belated inducement he tacked onto the statement made her chuckle under her breath, her bright eyes flashing. Inwardly, she felt something fluttering, her stomach and nerves snapping and pulling all at once.

"Yeah, you're paying?" she sassed, raising an eyebrow. "With what money?"

A valid question, even if it was said with an edge. It wasn't as though Bucky was on the payroll yet; anything he had, including cash, had to be given to him. Offering to pay for her was noble, but it was a little less so if there actually wasn't any money on hand to do so. If she thought being snarky would deter him, she was doomed to disappointment. It had only taken a few conversations with her to comprehend her penchant for using snark and sarcasm as a method of distancing herself from an object, an idea...a person. Cracking that code, he'd often shoot something just as biting back at her, or ignore it altogether. After carding a hand through his hair, he dug into the small gym bag he'd brought with him, extracting the small, black wallet that had been buried in his discarded jeans. Opening it, he fished out the thin plastic card, facing it out so the chip and numbers glinted at her.

"Fury said that I'd be covered with this," he pronounced carefully, tucking it away and his shoulder twitching. It was under a false name, but the card still operated as it was supposed to, so he had no qualms about keeping it. Credit cards were still so new to him; it blew his mind the first time he'd used it, with Steve commiserating with him as he purchased a bag of chips from the store. The matter of the bill and payments fell onto Fury, and so he was determined to use it as little as possible. He was certainly willing to make an exception for her, though. His grin widened as he looked down at her. "So, what do you say?"

She maintained her neutral expression, but inside, the tremors had risen. The now-familiar slide of excitement paired with dread wormed its way up from her stomach, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't quite deny its existence. For so long, she had operated without feeling, without emotion, and when she chose to indulge in the childish sweepings, it still jarred her terribly. For a few moments, she missed those days, missed merely functioning to get from day to day, mission to mission, no thought spared to what was churning deep within. After the debacle with...in May, she had hoped she would be done with it all. She had thought she'd found a haven in work, as always, even in lending a hand to someone in need.

What she hadn't expected was the hand extending back to her, unknowingly, and it shook her.

"Sure you don't want Maximoff to go with you instead?" Natasha breathed, ignoring the hard twist in her gut as she attempted, once again, to circumvent herself. Flapping a hand in the air, she tried to smile back. "I mean, the two of you are getting—"

"I asked you first," Bucky cut her off, his brow furrowing at her reticence. He understood the implications she was making, and it was true that the Maximoff girl had started to open up to him, a little. But it was hardly something to write home about, and he didn't really give the matter any thought. "Besides, she's on her way to England, remember?"

Screwing up her brow, the realization dawned on her, and she nodded, her matted, fiery hair shifting around her ears.

"Right, off to celebrate Late Hanukkah with her brother," she mused aloud, mouth turning up at the corners. Taking a deep breath, she crossed her arms over her chest, feeling his gaze focus more intently on her as she stared at the opposite wall. "I don't know..."

Fingers, the flesh ones, tapped at her shoulder, cajoling her. "C'mon, you'd rather sit at home and knit?"

She snorted at that, rolling her bright eyes up at him. "Oh, you make it sound so enticing when you put it that way."

The cornflower blue of his eyes had lost their luster, his dark hair falling over his brow as his head drooped. Natasha could only stare up at him, all at once wishing to run or to smooth the crestfallen look on his face away, and was trapped into doing nothing.

"Is my company really that bad?" he murmured, hands tucking into pockets, his darkened tone at odds with the bitter smirk he shot at her.

"No, it's...it's not at all." Quite the contrary, her brain muttered mutinously. Though he was often clueless, and often surly, it wasn't as though Bucky Barnes was a poor companion. Not once in the times they spent together outside of the training arena—and those times were beginning to outnumber the sparring bouts, now—did she feel as if he were a burden on her, or that he could not keep up. In fact, there were a few times in which he'd made he laugh, his hopeless colloquialisms and mannerisms from his formative years amusing her. Their monikers were left behind in those instances, and all that was left was James and Natalia. Despite his past sins, he wasn't a bad man, something she could plainly see in her person, and even in the letters he had written her. He was fierce and determined, working hard to earn a life that many (no doubt) felt he did not deserve. It was an odd turn to take, the field agent and the brainwashed assassin turning something tempestuous and broken into something...almost pleasant.

No, he wasn't bad company. And that was what made her nervous.

"Then what's stopping you?" He watched as she gave him another flickering glance, and he sighed. Slowly, he swept his bag and phone to the side, perching beside her on the bench. Truthfully, he could comprehend the hesitance she was showing. She was no shrinking violet, and she was not without blood on her hands, of course. But he knew that being around him was difficult; it was hard enough for Steve to put up with, he knew that much, and it would be no easier for her. It wasn't in him to beg, not to beg a person to sacrifice an iota of time on something they had no interest in.

But he could make his case. He had a lot of experience doing that over the last several weeks.

A slight shift sideways, and his exposed metal shoulder touched against her hot flesh. She did not so much as flinch when he touched her, and he felt a spark of admiration for her; the appendage never made her shrink away, never made her nervous.

Letting out a short breath, he confessed, "For the next few days, I'm going to have to pretend I'm, I'm somewhat...okay. That I didn't..."

His metal hand fisted into the leg of his sweats, and he closed his eyes against the wave of memories. The rage, the agony, the sorrow in a hundred different sets of eyes glared at him, even as he sharply jerked his head, trying to dislodge them. Natasha turned her attention back onto him, her brow furrowing as the silent storm encompassed him yet again. It took everything within her to not reach out, to clasp his wrist gently, and she had to curl her fingers into her palms to stop herself. Instead, she waited for the waves to wash away, to settle again. Carefully, he breathed through his nose, and calm began to descend once more.

"With you there, I won't feel that way, at least for one more night," he told her, opening his eyes and meeting her gaze fully. Seconds passed in which he silently pleaded with her, the treacherous lurch in his stomach rising on and off. "But I ain't gonna force you."

A beat of silence, the thud of her heart in her chest as she pondered his words pounding away in time to the passing seconds. The crestfallen look deepened; perhaps he was pushing her too much lately, impeding on her time.

"Well, have a safe flight out," he said, his tone matter-of-fact as he made to stand, determined to save face and get out of there as swiftly as possible. He'd only gotten one step away when a long, low sigh floated out. Freezing in place, he cast a glance over his shoulder at her, eyebrow raising minutely.

"...What movie are we going to see?" Natasha inquired, her voice nonchalant. This was a path to destruction, her mind whispered harshly, one that she was stupidly seeking, but in that moment, she couldn't quite bring herself to care. It was just food and a movie, no different from anything she'd do for her friends. And, after witnessing the sudden spring in Bucky's eyes, the emotion that was warmer than the smug smirk he was directing at her, she figured what she was doing wasn't all that bad.

And it was Christmas, after all, or nearly so. Perfect excuse, and that's what she told herself as she rose up, promising to meet him at the garage after a shower.

* * *

 **A/N:** And so we start the multi-chapter Christmas extravaganza...in September...no, I didn't listen to Christmas music while writing...ignore my shifty eyes.

If y'all are waiting on more action/adventure in the story, I'm going to have to ask you to sit tight and hang on for awhile. I do intend to do a few things, but after the drama of the last few chapters, I'm trying my hand at more light and fluffy for the time being. Please be patient!

I don't know how I'm doing with Bucky and Natasha. I really am trying to represent them as well as I can, but I...I just don't know. I hope they're coming off decently...

Trying to get back into the regular posting schedule after the slight derailment two weeks ago, so we'll see how that goes.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text (Star Wars, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	12. Chapter 12

On the whole, the dinner wasn't as bad as it could have been. There were a lot of variables that could have made the situation worse than it was: Bucky not having been out with the general public for some time, the high profile standing of at least two members of the dinner party, the differences between the fighting members and the civilians of the group. However, Steve was grateful to find that, despite some minimal fussing of the staff at the restaurant—the private room in the back would be at their disposal, and Captain America's party would be undisturbed, so that manager swore—and the strange glances shot between his family and his friends from time to time, it went about as smoothly as he could hope for.

Of the family, it had been Paul to recognize Bucky for who he was first, and his wide-eyed gaze had given the captain some concern (it was the closest to shock he'd ever seen his father-in-law in), but he was quick about recovering. When asked how the Howling Commando had survived for as long had Steve had without being frozen, the ex-assassin had coughed, fork rotating in his gloved left hand, the long sleeve on his arm tugged further down over it. Unable to shake off his tied tongue, it had been Natasha who had filled in. No extreme details were given, but it was enough for them to know that Bucky had suffered at the hands of a rogue agency, his freedom from them being gained a short time ago. Her showing up had initially taken Steve aback, though Holly had donned her slick, shifty expression (the one she wore when she thought she knew something no one else did; when prompted, she just brushed it off, but the glint in her eyes was still there). However, he found himself thanking God for her coming along with Bucky. She was very adept at reading situations, diffusing tensions and diverting paths to move onto different topics. Soon enough, she was laughing with Lisa over a story about putting the recruits through paces—and shaming some of the more cocky ones—while Hank decided to engage Bucky in a discussion on cars and certain motorcycle models. It was a little stilted, to be sure, but once the mechanic had started showing him photos of the restoration project he would undertake in the next few months, he had his attention. Steve's, too, when he passed the phone between them.

"A Packard 180?" the captain had crooned, swiping his finger along the screen as Bucky craned his neck to look over his shoulder at them, too. Hank nodded, proud of the find he had made.

"It needs an overhaul, what with all the rust and being older than the hills." His hazel eyes sparked when Steve looked up again, and off his arched eyebrow, he chuckled, "Made me think of you for some reason."

Steve's brow furrowed, but under the pulse of conversation around him, he'd heard the stifled laughter of his friend. Shaking his head, he smirked at his brother-in-law, threading his fingers with his wife's and shrugging off the joking jab. Yep, it was about the best he could probably ask for. Once dinner was finished, the company exited the establishment. They had chosen to eat out in Gloversville for the evening, sticking to the fringes of the city as much as they could. Thus far, they had retained anonymity, with beanies and winter gear replacing the traditional ball caps and sunglasses for the night. The group cut across town towards the movie theater adjacent to the mall, one of the ones with those nicely cushioned seats that could lean back with a person as they sat. That was almost enough, in his opinion, to forget about the outrageous concessions prices and the overdone preview...things...that always came on now before the picture. At least the newsreels were pertinent, back in the day.

There was no question about which film they would be seeing. Holly had been dying to see _Star Wars: The Force Awakens_ since it was first announced; frankly, if she were in any condition to be camping outside the nearest theater in the middle of December for the premiere, she most likely would have done so. It was hardly a concession for the others to agree to the choice; she and her husband had bonded over the movies, and her family didn't have a real problem with them, anyway. Their additional companions did not voice any objections, either, save that the redhead had declared the theater would definitely be crowded. It was just as well; the more they were crowded, the more likely they would go unnoticed (particularly when out of uniform and not drawing attention to themselves).

Bucky risked a glance at Natasha, giving her a watery grin as he handed over his card to pay for their tickets. Thankfully he'd gotten caught up in time; two long movie nights in with her and Wanda had helped out. He wouldn't be too lost; at least he knew what a Jedi was, and the Sith. He just hoped the whiny kid from the second and third installments wouldn't be in it; his whispered comments made Natasha giggle and Steve smile tightly, while Holly said she would be glad if a certain Gungan never found his way on the screen again. A simultaneous shudder ran through them all at that.

Seating was left up to the visiting members of the clan, Hank and Paul actually deliberating for a few long minutes at the side of the theater. Paul argued for closer to the front to feel more a part of the action, while Hank insisted on the back row to get a better overall view. After letting them whinge to one another for some time, Lisa stepped in to make an executive decision, ushering them all towards some middle seating still left over and hushing her husband's mild ribbing of her authoritative stance as they filed in. Coats and jackets were slung along the backs of their seats, though Natasha had fussed with Bucky's to make it sit right (she protested that she didn't want his sleeve to brush at her through the whole movie, softening the words with a wink). The sheer amount of people filling the space was enough to make Bucky fidget, fingers tugging at his sweatshirt and his glove. Though not overly exposed, he did feel more so than usual, and it would take some getting used to. On his left, he heard Steve cough, his broad shoulder bumping his in reassurance. It was just a movie; he could get through it, he promised himself. Once the theater darkened, and the screen lit up with the fantastical scenes of the coming attractions, the crowds were the last thing on his mind. To his left, he heard a muted squeal of excitement, and he glanced over, catching Steve's growing smile at Holly's obvious joy, both her hands taking his.

The scope of the film was what truly took the breath away, in Bucky's opinion. In his time, space was an unconquered frontier, and in truth, it still was to some extent, but the visuals and wide openness reflected onscreen, the different worlds and creatures inhabiting them captured his attention. Beside him, he would hear Natasha mumble every now and again, trying her hand at predicting events in the movie before they happened, scooting close so that their companions would hear her. Down the way, he caught Hank's voice whispering about how attractive the female lead was, making her way around the desert planet and fighting with her staff. She was a tough cookie, and Bucky couldn't deny the truth in Hank's words. And when the iconic Captain Solo appeared, he felt Steve straighten in his seat beside him, looking as proud as if it were him up on the screen. The plot was familiar, running along the same lines as the fourth installment, but at the moment, it didn't matter. He was out, enjoying himself with friends, like a regular person. Like a regular human being. His therapist would be pleased with his progress. Hell, even he was pleased with his progress.

And the whiny kid from the prequel trilogy did not appear. No, evidently a new kid had inherited the crown, only with darker hair and a much bigger nose. His conflict in the story rubbed Bucky the wrong way as the Sith attempted to prove his worth, his place in the universe. Despite that, it was a good time, and Bucky was enjoying himself, even with the woman on his right occasionally nattering away. However, the calm that had descended upon him was bound to fade away at some point. A creeping feeling in his gut tightened as Leia and Han bid farewell to each other, and he found himself drawn in deeper when the old man found Kylo Ren, the bark of his true name echoing in the theater as well.

When the lightsaber tore through the old man, his son's face devoid of any emotion, Bucky felt the dread spread through him. He also felt fingers clench around his wrist. Cutting a glance to his right, he saw Natasha's wide eyes riveted to the screen. All her mumbles of knowing something bad was about to happen had been stemmed as she stared on, the heat of her palm along his exposed wrist bleeding into his skin. His left hand curled in his lap, his gaze flying from her face to her gripping fingers, warmth flooding him and leaving him uncertain of what to do.

"WHAT?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" a voice screamed in the dark, both Bucky and Nat looking over in time to see Steve stand, an arm wrapping around his wife and guiding her back into her seat. The shock of the moment must have almost literally ejected Holly from her chair, her mouth gaping and her hands gesticulating wildly at the screen. Devastation and fury were written all over her face as angered gasps and cries rippled through the air, half the theater was in agreement with her outburst. Within moments, the crowd was quieted again, the shout forgotten as the film played on and Holly buried her face into Steve's shoulder, muttering under her breath as her fingers fisted into his shirt.

Natasha's fingers shifted along Bucky's wrist, remaining in place until the young girl had come upon the missing Skywalker, her tremulous face filling the screen as she extended the Jedi's weapon out to him. Slowly, but surely, the warmth petered away, and Bucky was unconsciously frowning at the loss.

As the credits started to roll and the lights in the house were brought up, the people around them rose and shuffled, the atmosphere carrying a new, distinct flavor as the time to leave came. It pulled the captain up short as they moved, and the others looked at him curiously.

"We better get moving," Steve announced, his posture stiff and his face grim. Blue eyes swept around the space, and his arm had started to curl a little tighter around Holly's waist. She, in turn, was nodding, dark eyes cutting to the crowds and back to him, to her family as she hastily crammed her winter cap back on her head.

From the other side, he could see Lisa's silvered blonde head tipping to the side, furrowing her brow.

"Why?"

Steve exhaled softly out his nose, his chin raising minutely. "People have noticed we're here."

"What do you...oh, right," Hank replied, taking in the murmuring crowds, the curious teenagers and the eyebrow-raising adults, some of whom sported visible signs of their support of the Avengers. Eyes darted between the captain and the Black Widow, their companions meriting minor curiosity as they tried to shuffle out of the theater building entirely. If they weren't careful, the entire group could get swept up, swamped by fans and admirers. That was something they didn't need at the moment. Caps and hoods were thrown on, scarves wrapped to obscure a little more of their faces as the murmurings got louder. Agita climbed inside of Bucky, but he held his composure as they walked, his head ducked somewhat to avoid recognition.

Natasha folded her arms, scanning the crowds and arching an eyebrow at her leader. "Scramble?"

Steve nodded, gesturing for them all to stop by an embankment of doors, just off the bathrooms. Time for a plan.

"Paul and Lisa, follow Nat and James to the north entrance," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "Her car's there, so she can bring you back home. Holly, Hank, and I will go out the east exit and to the truck. We'll meet back at the house. If we move fast, we might be able to get past 'em."

"Relatively unscathed, that is," Holly breathed out, sharing a knowing look with Nat for a second or two. Lifting a shoulder, she took her husband's hand, gesturing for her brother to step lively. Mr. Martin placed a hand along the small of his wife's back, nodding to his son-in-law as they left before turning to the other two remaining with them.

"It would probably be better for me to blend and follow," Bucky breathed in Natasha's ear, shrugging on his thick coat as he spoke. Sliding the remaining glove onto his bare hand, he murmured, "I'll be right behind you."

The warmth of his body behind hers melted away, and she did not acknowledge the cold shiver that had run up her spine. Shaking her head, she turned her focus onto her objective, pulling on her own winter gear and smiling reassuringly at the Martins. Shifting in between them, she quietly instructed them to walk, lacing her arms around the pair of them. With her hair now tucked into her hat, and slouching her stance, she struck up a falsely cheerful conversation with Lisa about Christmas decorations. In mere seconds, she had gone from the imposing Black Widow to a young woman without a care in the world. To other observers, she passed for a girl out with her parents on the brink of the holidays. Paul's face ticked nervously, but he kept his expression neutral, while Mrs. Martin did her best to keep chattering. All the while, as they threaded through the other theater goers (many of whom were wondering what had happened to the two Avengers spotted in the building, or being chided for thinking they were even there in the first place) the unobtrusive presence of a certain soldier lingered behind them, languidly following after them once they finally made it to the exit. Once they were through the door, Natasha dropped the facade, pulling her legs into a jog over to her sleek vehicle, thankful for choosing the black model. Someone in the distance cried out, but by then all four of them were situated in the seats, and she had maneuvered the car out of its spot.

When there was a good amount of distance placed between them and the theater, Natasha took stock of the other inhabitants of the vehicle. Bucky's gaze was sweeping around as she drove, blue eyes still wide in concern. In the rear-view mirror, she spotted Lisa and Paul unzipping their coats, the look on their faces sliding between humor and incredulity.

Chuckling silently to herself, Natasha negotiated a left turn and said, "Hope that brief near-miss with celebrity hasn't put you folks off."

The older woman in the back laughed, a sardonic edge to it. "Not much. Does that happen often?"

Natasha almost felt the precise moment when Bucky's attention turned off the road and onto her. His eyes hadn't moved, but she had spotted his body shifting, his curiosity in hearing her answer.

"Actually, not as much as you'd think. But then again, it's not a problem for me," she told her honestly, canting her head slightly. Her smile took on a hard edge as she propelled the car through a stoplight, breaking free of the confines of the city and onto the open highway. "I'm very good about hiding in plain sight when I want to."

Paul grunted, combing a hand through his hair and smirking. "Useful skill to have."

"Thanks. Too bad I can't teach it to your son-in-law," she remarked lightly, earning a chuckle for her efforts. There were reasons why Steve had headed the Strike Team and was not technically an agent two years ago. His time on the run with her proved his lack of ability; he was an able soldier, a great leader, but he was no espionage expert. She still maintained that he wouldn't have been alive without her prompting at the mall ("Your pushing," he'd retaliated, but she brushed it off at the time).

"It is rather hard to hide someone like him in a crowd, I'll give you that," Lisa replied, leaning back into her seat. A barely-muted snort flew out of Natasha's nose; she didn't know the half of it. Shaking her head, the older woman turned her attention to the man occupying the passenger seat, a curious smile lighting up her face even in the darkened cab. "Although I'm surprised you were able to do so, James."

Bucky's posture slumped a little, and the ghost of a grin he had been sporting was lost.

"Have a lot of practice, too," he confessed, the digits of his left hand fidgeting now. Smoothly, the redhead interjected then, recovering the cover conversation with Lisa from earlier and genuinely inquiring what she and Holly would have up their sleeves in regards to the holiday. Moving away from the topic, the conversation wound and turned as they shot down the road, the cold night wrapping around them, errant flakes dropping on and off as the off-kilter company found its way back home. The radio switched on, tuned to a station that had been playing Christmas tunes since the end of November, the Beatles and Bruce Springsteen doing their best to blot out any residual awkwardness that stayed with them. By the time they reached the half hour mark of the trip, the Black Widow was turning up a familiar driveway, the bright floodlight on and illuminating the property. Relieved at their arrival, the older couple thanked her for her help, and expressed their wishes for a safe journey in the morning as they exited. Waving a little out her window, she leaned back in her seat as the doors closed and they went into the house, catching Bucky blowing out a sharp breath and scrubbing a hand over his face. Natasha sighed then, as though it were a great concession to drive the pair of parents back to the house. As if civilians had worn her out. The glimmer in her bright eyes told him differently as she spoke.

"So that's what you'll be dealing with for the next few days."

Bucky shrugged at that, matching her mockingly serious tone. "I have options. And, well, could be worse."

They shared a grin, and Natasha shook her head, the lengthening curls of her red hair swinging gently. The purr of the idling engine filled in the quiet for a few moments, both of them content to sit for the time being. Soon enough, though, bright eyes glanced right, and she relaxed in her seat.

"You know, you did pretty well. With the whole strangers and being out in public thing."

"See, I don't know if you're being genuine or not," Bucky retorted, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk. Passing a hand through his dark tresses, he muttered, "I'm going to assume that you are and just take the compliment."

She blinked at his words, grin fading as sincerity took her over.

"I...actually was," she breathed, his brow smoothing out as she spoke. Tapping her thumb along the curve of the wheel, she reached out for him, resting her hand on his coat. The canvas soaked up the heat of her fingers, and he felt the muted squeeze she gave, felt the slight pull where the skin met metal. A split second passed, and then her hand was gone, the weight lifting and making him feel oddly bereft. Glancing at the digital read-out of the radio, she noted the time. "Well, it's late, and I've got my flight tomorrow."

"Right, right," he murmured, clearing his throat and dropping his gaze down to his knees. A few more moments passed before he coughed again, hooking his hand into the handle and opening the door. "Uh, well, merry Christmas, then."

"Merry Christmas," she bid him just as he climbed out of the car, the door slamming shut. Her fingers curled around the wheel, and she chewed the inside of her lip as he moved around the front of the vehicle, debating something. Before he could get too far, she rolled down her window, leaning her head out and calling to him. Pulled up short, Bucky half-turned, quirking an eyebrow at her as the snow drifted down from the roof, the wind gusting and surrounding him in a false flurry. Nodding once, she found her voice again. " _Do svidaniya_ , James."

" _Do svidaniya_ , Natalia," he called back, raising his hand in farewell as she backed up her car and drove away.

Putting his hand in his pocket, he felt a lump there, one that had not been present before. That pocket had been empty all night, or so he had thought. Quirking his brow, he pulled it out, turning it over. The wrapping paper glinted in the flood light as he made his way around to the back door. Pausing in his journey, he felt his heart patter a little faster as he examined it again, his face contorting in contemplation. It was small, too small and light to be any form of bomb or explosive device. Hesitantly, he pushed a gloved finger along the seam, pulling up the tape carefully. The gaudy candy canes shimmered with glitter as he peeled off the paper, absentmindedly folding it with one hand to save it. The white box that remained had a simple lid, a small adhesive note atop it proclaiming it to be from Natasha (as if there were any doubt left in his mind by that point). Once he pried it open, he blinked. Nestled in some gauzy material was a chain, looping around more metal. Inhaling sharply, he removed the chain, holding it out to look at the single dog tag attached to it.

Bucky stared at it, a little surprised as he put the box back in his pocket. His old tags had been lost, taken with the rest of his personal effects when he was captured all those years ago. Nothing of his past was allowed to survive; it was too important to keep him ingrained in his mindset as the Winter Soldier, and his handlers could not afford to lose him over a slip such as keeping military tags. Name, rank, serial number...all that was lost to him.

And while the tag before him was not anything like the ones he used to own, it did feel like another part of his identity was found, a little piece rejoining the whole. Wrapped with a rubber silencer around the edges, the metal was stamped with a single star, plain and no color. No blood red dripping down to mar the smooth beauty of it. Beneath it was simply inscribed: _J.B. Barnes_. Palming it briefly, his gloved thumb swiped over the tag, curious as to why he was only given the one. A bittersweet smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he glanced over to where Natasha's car had been parked mere moments earlier.

Clearly she'd gotten more than a change of clothes before they went out. He just hadn't expected anything else. She was good for a surprise, that woman.

"...Huh," he breathed quietly. The chain looped over his head easily enough, and as he tucked the freezing metal in at the neck of his coat, he shrugged his shoulders. The bite of the cold December air seemed nearly balmy as he took the last few steps up to the back door, flicking off the flood light as he entered the house.

 **xXxXxXx**

Waking up on Christmas Eve morning, Hank Martin crooked an elbow over his eyes, groaning as he shifted. The last time he'd slept on a futon, he'd been crashed out during a house party, and had left with no shoes and very little dignity. And no back pain; it was a little more difficult to handle that kind of furniture in his thirties than in his twenties. Rolling over, he moaned a little, casting a glance out the unshaded windows. Though it was overcast, snow was not falling yet, and he hummed to himself as he went about the business of gathering up his clothes for the day. It was too bad that Jodie couldn't make it out there with him. She would have loved playing outside at her aunt's house.

It was too bad that Gemma couldn't come along, either; he and his girlfriend could have engaged in play entirely different from his daughter's definition of the word. Her work was less lenient than his, though, and so they had to just deal with it. Besides, there was still New Year's; he would have her undivided attention then, at least. Humming under his breath, he picked out his clothes to wear for the day, a towel snatched up along with his toiletries. The day before had started in the same vein, leading to an exploration with his father and brother-in-law of the edge of the property. The hike through the snow chilled them all, but he didn't mind it all that much. He was away from the garage and the nagging customers. He hadn't ever been to the upstate area of New York before; it was quite different from D.C., when he had visited Holly there a few years ago. He hadn't thought that the place would be so remote, and quiet, but he could understand the appeal of it. Though Steve didn't give details about his job, it wasn't as if Hank and the family were ignorant of what he most likely had to put up with on the daily. The home he'd had with Holly was clearly a respite, and it was good to see the guy relaxed and not brooding overmuch.

The sound of singing drew him out of his reverie, and he groaned. The hallway bathroom was already taken over, his mother's voice floating through the panel and clashing with the cheery music on the record player down in the living room. Too late to get to the shower first, he mused.

Grumbling under his breath, he considered his options. There was the private bathroom that Steve and Holly shared in their room, or there was the other one down in the basement that he could try for. Thinking for a few moments, he made his choice, clomping down the stairs with alacrity. He'd rather take his chances with the friend than with his sister and brother-in-law possibly doing...stuff that he did not care to accidentally stumble upon. The guy was still a slightly unknown entity, and they were still getting used to one another sharing the space, but he had a feeling that James—Bucky, he reminded himself, the Howling Commando, holy crap—would be easier to deal with. Skirting through the garland-wrapped living room, he clambered down the basement steps swiftly. Crossing over to the bathroom door, he started to duck in just as Bucky came out of his room. The two men paused in their tracks, staring dumbly at one another for the moment.

"Oh, hey, dude," Hank finally said, a sheepish grin gracing his lips. Hooking a thumb back at the stairs, he went on, "Sorry, um, the upstairs one is occupied, so I thought..."

"No, it's okay. It's not like I need it right now," Bucky stated, shaking his head to emphasize the wet strands of hair, evidence of his own showering. It jarred the dog tag around his neck as well. Half pivoting, he shrugged and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. "Go ahead."

"Thanks," Hank said, flashing him a quick grin. Dipping his chin in a nod, his eyes caught the twitch of the other man's fingers, caught the shine of the lights across his left arm. Eyebrows flew up, and a sharp intake of breath cut through the air. Frowning, Bucky took stock of his expression, then glanced down at his arm. Grimacing, he stood still as Hank nearly dropped his clothes and towel. So _that_ was why the guy always wore a glove, even indoors. "Holy shit."

The grimace deepened, and a slight flinch made his face tick. The twitch was strong enough to be noticed, and immediately, the young man held a palm up in placation, self-recrimination in his gaze.

"Oh, wow, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." he blurted, threading a hand through his dark hair. Awkward seconds of silence passed, and he cleared his throat as best he could. "Just...is that...your whole arm?"

He could have bitten through his own tongue at the stupid question, able to see for himself the extent of metal running up to the other man's elbow. For his part, Bucky stiffened, but still nodded.

"Yes. It's a prosthesis," he explained unnecessarily. Pointedly, he lifted the left hand to tap at his temple, the shadows of a smirk dancing across his mouth. "Which somehow works up here, too. Nerve endings being connected over the years, or something like that. That's what I've been told, at least."

The SHIELD examiners had told him as much before he'd entered rehab, but even so, he still wasn't entirely sure how HYDRA had managed to make such a connection, even back in the forties. Those memories, save for brief shots that fluttered in his dreams, were mostly gone. And he still was unsure about whether he should have been thankful for that or not. In any case, Bucky almost chuckled as Hank let out a low whistle at that.

"Woah," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. Lost for words yet again, Hank made a flyaway gesture with his hand, trying to smooth over the rough patch they'd just hit. "Got a buddy, did a couple tours in Afghanistan, sorta has something similar with his leg. It's a little less advanced than that, though." He tried to laugh it off. "Maybe he should get in touch with your doctor."

The strain in Bucky's face was suddenly obvious, and his smirk had turned bitter. He couldn't hold it against the guy; it wasn't like he knew the details or anything. Still, the thought irked him, and it showed. Sensing that he was close to pushing boundaries, Hank physically took a step back into the bathroom, setting his stuff on the sink, and coughing.

"Sorry again for...well," he apologized, fingers curling around the door handle. Roughly, Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets, lifting a shoulder.

"It's kind of hard to miss," he replied, wryness coming over his features.

"Yeah. Had no idea my sister was housing the Terminator," Hank told him, his tone indicating he was making a joke. Not understanding it, Bucky merely narrowed his eyes in thoughtfulness. Sighing, the young man back further into the small bathroom space, turning his gaze to his feet. "Okay, well, I'm going to shut up and shower now. Sorry."

"It's okay," Bucky muttered as the door was finally closed. The sound of running water was muted through the panels, and the noise thus ensured that the young man could not hear his grunt or the slight grind of his teeth. Well, it could have definitely gone worse. However, he had not intended for any of Holly's family to find out about his appendage. It was a vain hope, one that both Steve and Natasha had told him would be almost impossible to aim for, but he'd managed to make a decent go of it. For a little while, he'd stuck to long-sleeved shirts and either kept his left hand in his pocket or gloved. One overly hot shower and mistakenly dressing warmly afterward had ruined that plan. Shaking his head to himself, he felt a hot spike of rebellion and willfulness flash through him. If the secret was out, might as well be all out, then. Going back into his room, he decided to change shirts, throwing on instead the tee that had both sleeves cut off—by design, which made him question some of the choices being made in the modern world. Hardly appropriate for winter in upstate New York, but if it didn't get the point across, he didn't know what would. After swiping a hand through his hair and tucking his dog tag out of sight, he departed for the stairs, making the turn into the kitchen in time for both Holly and Mrs. Martin to turn towards the light-strewn arch and set their plates on the island. The older woman's eyes suddenly widened, and Holly's brow wrinkled as she attempted a grin. She sharply pinched her mother, her little yelp drawing her out of her staring and turning their conversation back towards what they were going to do that day.

"Morning, Buck," Steve greeted him from his spot at the table, his bright gaze scanning over his friend. Blinking slowly, he let an eyebrow carefully spike as the brunet made his way over to the carafe. No doubt he was wondering at the about-face Bucky had pulled on his own plans, but the other man just poured a cup of coffee for himself. He'd figure it out soon enough.

"Hey," he responded, nodding to the ladies as well before going over to the table. Plates had been stacked up on the counter for people to take, the breakfast dishes laid out across the tabletop. Taking one with him, Bucky took the seat along the far wall, wedging himself in carefully. Looking up, he noticed the older man to his left glance up from the two-day-old newspaper, his expression creasing slightly. Clearing his throat, he mumbled, "Good morning, Mr. Martin."

"James," Paul returned, nodding at him. Noting Bucky's lingering gaze, he turned the page, tipping his head towards the piled papers at his elbow. "Looking for a particular section?"

"Whatever you're finished with. Otherwise, I can use the tablet. Sir," he added belatedly, not truly intending to antagonize the man. Still, he received nothing more than a dip of the chin and a flickering glance as the fellow turned his attention back to the paper. Something about it struck him as so familiar, but the remembrance hovered at the back of his mind, niggling but unclear. Rotating his wrist, the plates on his arm clicked as Bucky reached for the leftover section about international news. He purposefully held it up with his left hand, letting the overhead light gleam off the metal. When that failed to get any sort of reaction, he abandoned his attempt at reading the stories (the King of Wakanda was addressing the United Nations at some point after the New Year, apparently, but he didn't really make a point to recall it). Instead he began to pick at the offerings for breakfast left on the table. Hank entered the room, his shower finished and hair drying as he scooped up a plate for himself. Sitting across from him, the younger man watched as the shining appendage took up a couple of pancakes and some bacon, sighing under his breath but otherwise saying nothing. Under the table, Bucky felt a sharp tap at his ankle, and he jerked in his seat. Looking up, he caught Steve's disapproving frown just before the blond man took a bite of food. At the island, the two women in the house maintained the conversation they were having, though it grew more strained as Lisa's gaze volleyed to him and away. Holly started to run her finger along the scar above her eyebrow as he reached across the table for syrup, almost challenging someone to comment as the fingers clinked and squeezed around the bottle.

Finally, Paul, having observed all this, folded up the newspaper and laid it to one side. Folding his arms over his chest, he waited until Bucky had picked up his fork again, preparing to eat.

"Okay, son. I can see you have a metal arm. We all have," he remarked bluntly, his expression remaining even. Silence engulfed them all, but it did not hover for long. Leaning forward, he stated simply, "If you're waiting for someone to grill you about it, you're gonna be waiting for awhile."

Bucky's spine stiffened, and he met the patriarch's gaze fully. Memory sputtered in the back of his mind again, the fatherly tone the man had taken shaking him. Father...his father. Paul reminded him of his own dad. He used to love trying to get a rise out of his dad when he was a kid, desperate to get his attention in any way he could. And Mr. Barnes had used a similar tone with him, the look in his eye bordering between exasperation and amusement taking him aback. Still, he wouldn't be cowed by the statement, and so he merely put his fork back on the table, curling his left hand and making the fingers clink against each other.

"Really." Not a question, but he was interested in the fellow's answer. Paul scoffed audibly at that, not about to let the word hang in the air.

"Trust me, I have enough to think about with a son-in-law who is technically older than I am and runs around the world fighting evil," he replied, pointing across the table to Steve before hooking a thumb at Hank (both of them flushing a little under the scrutiny), "my own son wanting to convert my basement into a still, and a new hire who can't tell the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground calling me every five minutes for help." The cell phone at his side had been quiet for the last few minutes, but even Bucky hadn't missed the last message and the eye roll the older man had given the device when he saw it come in. Paul's gaze softened slightly, but his jaw was set firmly. "Why you've got that arm doesn't break my top ten at this moment."

Quiet encircled them, the haze of it making the others unwilling to move even a muscle as the two men stared at one another. Music floated in from the record player from the living room, the swing of Sinatra distracting from the awkwardness. Several long moments passed, and then a clearing throat at the other end of the table drew them out of it.

"What about your top fifteen, Paul?" Steve asked innocently, eyeing his father-in-law over the rim of his coffee mug. A chorus of smothered snickers (from his wife, Hank, and Lisa as well) followed his inquiry, making the placid expression he adopted that much harder to maintain. Bucky just shot him a look, his jaw taking on a mocking mulish set. The urge to laugh had to be buried, was buried beneath the remaining shock. For his part, Paul exhaled sharply out his nose, slapping the newspaper down and scrubbing a palm against his brow. The light in his dark eyes danced, though, so Steve didn't feel too bad about egging him on.

"I'm surrounded by smart asses."

"Would you rather we were idiots, Dad?" Hank scoffed, finally reaching out to assemble his own breakfast. Casting a glance at the other two men at the table, he continued. "And it wouldn't be a still. Just trying some brewing on the side with a friend of mine, and we need a little more space."

"Cut me in when you finally get around to selling it, and then we'll talk, Henry," Paul retorted, shaking his head and rising to refill his coffee mug. With the tension broken, with the most glaringly obvious fact of his differences between him and these people out for all to see, Bucky felt something inside him deflate. They may not know everything that he had done, but they could see the monstrosity on his body, and not flinch away from it. To them, it was just a part of him—a big, shiny part of him—and that was just it. Glancing up, he noticed Steve ducking his head, the rueful grin he was sporting barely hidden. He understood, it seemed, and Bucky blew out a breath.

Flicking his blue eyes across the table, though, he smirked and snorted. " _Henry_."

Hank's earlier reticence with him was gone in an instant, replaced with faux irritation and a finger jabbing in his direction.

"Don't even, _Robo-Cop,_ " he snapped, earning confused looks from both super soldiers while his sister choked down another wave of laughter. Canting his head to the side, he chose to ignore the reference he made and instead elaborated further on his brewing venture, metals arms and tensions forgotten.

 **xXxXxXx**

Holly sank down on the edge of her mattress, letting out a soft sigh. Holidays were so much work, she thought to herself. Being a guest for a holiday was so simple in comparison to being the host. It was worth it, though, in her opinion; she had her family for that one, and her husband was safe at home, too. It was worth it, even when she wanted to slam her head against the counter in frustration. Even when she was left with choking down non-alcoholic eggnog (for Bump's sake, she reminded herself, would she do it). At least that time, she had Lisa around to help her out. The woman was a master, in her own way, bustling around and keeping an eye on the myriad of things that needed to be done around the house. Hell, it was enough for her to keep fussing over Bucky, letting him tell her some of his sparse memories of his family at Christmas while she rescued a batch of cookies from the oven.

Having her mother there was a godsend, truly. Keeping her busy had successfully distracted her from her brief bouts of nausea that day, and allowed Holly the opportunity to escape once or twice.

A knock came at the open door, and she pulled herself out of her mind, smiling up at her mother. Lisa had come up with the news that the men had returned from their second outdoor escapade (Bucky had even gone with that time; who knew that exposing his arm would actually drop some barriers?), and she wanted to know what she wanted to do first: dinner or presents. Since they were infringing on her home, she thought Holly should be the one to decide. The younger woman's personal logic denoted that for a group of men, all of whom were generally active and at least physically over thirty years old, getting some food in them would be the wisest course of action. Lisa nodded at that, snickering in agreement with the plan. Before she could move back towards the stairs, Holly called out to her, ushering her back into the bedroom. Gesturing for her to take a seat beside her, she drew in a deep breath.

"Thanks for your help, Mom," she started, wishing she could do more to express her gratitude.

Lisa shook her head, her blond braid twitching along her back. "Don't worry about it."

"Really," she butted in, wanting to say her piece. Her mouth curved up as she looked at the older woman, warmth and admiration filling her from the inside out. "You've always made this look so easy over the years, even when you're yelling for me to get the damn gravy."

That memory made them both laugh, even if at the time she had been shocked and a little frightened by her mother's outburst. She was thirteen, and moody at the time, not wanting to be a part of anything for the holidays. Boy, did Lisa set her straight that year.

"One time out of twenty-seven years, and that's the one you remember. No respect," she groused in good humor, flapping a hand in the air. Waiting for the laughter to peter off, Lisa gave Holly a soft smile, reaching up and plucking some stray hairs from her sweater. "It wasn't always easy, but it gets better every time. New memories to make, which I'm glad to do."

"Even with me?"

Lisa smiled broadly. "Especially with my children."

The younger woman gave her a long look, and curved her mouth up happily. "You're such a good mom. And grandma."

Her fingers curled into the ends of her sleeves, preventing herself from laying on her own abdomen. She was just shy of truly biting her tongue to stop herself from spilling everything to her mother, but she held back. For her part, the older woman accepted her words with a decisive nod.

"Getting cavities, sugar," Lisa teased her youngest daughter, nudging her elbow with her own. Snaking an arm around her, she pulled her into her side, hugging her tightly. Holly closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around her and letting her chin rest on her shoulder. "Thank you."

Footsteps in the hall made them both turn their heads towards the door just as Steve stepped into the room, his ears and cheeks still pink from the cold. Stopping short upon spotting them, he grinned as Lisa rose from her seat, promising to get things set up downstairs for them. Passing him on her way out, she patted her son-in-law's arm fondly. His eyes tracked her path to the stairs before flicking back to his wife. Gently, he smiled, leaning back against the door and crossing his arms.

"Tonight or tomorrow, sweetheart?" he asked, the confident lilt of his voice making her giggle a little.

"Tonight. Definitely tonight."

Letting out a short breath, Steve wandered into the room, going into the closet and reaching up into the hiding place along the top shelf. Withdrawing the three wrapped parcels, he came back into the room, handing them off to Holly one by one. Apparently, he'd beaten her to the punch on getting the presents ready, as she hadn't gotten beyond boxing them up. There were several breaks in the day where she hadn't seen him; he could easily have sneaked upstairs and finished the special project while she was doing other things. Catching her inquisitive gaze, he grinned.

"Figured you would want to get it done as soon as you could," he said, laying his palm on her shoulder, thumb brushing back and forth. Carefully, she took his hand off her, instead bringing it up to her lips. Pecks were dropped on his knuckles, and she smiled up at him, brighter than before.

"Good man," she said, tugging gently on his hand. Following her prompt, he leaned over, bracing himself firmly on the bedspread and kissing her soundly. A raised voice came up the stairwell then, jarring them both out of the moment. Breathing sharply out of his nose, Steve pulled a face, muttering about the déjà vu nature of an illicit kiss stolen in between family moments, and she laughed. Gathering up the little gifts, she led the way down the stairs, with him right behind her and his hand resting in the small of her back. The packages were hidden quickly, and the pair were in the kitchen before notice could be taken.

Dinner was light, as the buffet-style meal that would extend over the entire day of Christmas loomed on the horizon, and soon enough the group found themselves in the living room. Dessert cookies were gnawed at while new music played in the background (the missus of the house took control, her new favorite being the album put out by a talented Broadway actress). Two presents each for Christmas Eve were to be opened, and then stockings and the remainder would be unwrapped after services the next morning. Steve knew for a fact that he would not be dodging the ugly sweater present any more than the rest of them—and he had been proven right, with the stitched shield motif surrounded by reindeer and evergreens; once again, Lisa sat on the arm of the chair her husband was perched in, proud of her finds—but he had thought that Bucky would be able to get out free. With a sly grin, Holly had handed off a crudely wrapped parcel, and Steve had to hold back a sharp laugh as his friend revealed the long-sleeve shirt underneath that just said 'sidekick' in block letters. His eyebrows nearly hit his hairline, and the young woman merely smiled in response. About the time the duet with the Canadian crooner had rolled around, they were sated, and Holly's parents were debating upon whether or not to pop in a DVD or pick a show from the saved list. A slight nudge in the back prompted the young woman to sit up straighter, her man rubbing small circles in her shirt's fabric.

"Hold on, we've got one more for each of you," Holly cut in, sharing another glance with Steve. With the barest nod from him, she went forward, being the one to collect them from their spot behind the tree. She passed one off to her husband before moving towards her family, her hands shaking a little as she did so.

"Someone's rocking the tradition boat," Hank said, accepting his gift with a wink from his place on the floor. Steve swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in spite of the wary grin on his lips.

"For good reason," he returned, answering his brother-in-law's questioning look with a bland expression. Standing quickly, he held out the small, wrapped box to his friend, inclining his head as he took it. "You, too, Bucky."

Barnes quirked an eyebrow, but he accepted the additional gift, hearing the delicate clink of glass within and endeavoring to be extra careful with it. He leaned into the kitchen chair he'd brought into the room, knee bouncing as he considered the small package. Sitting back on the couch, Steve's eyes darted from him to his in-laws, a spike of excitement and anxiety flooding through him.

"There's one for Heather and Jake too, but I thought you could take it back with you when you go," Holly was explaining to her parents before taking her seat beside him.

Hank grunted at that. "So it's not time sensitive, then."

"Depends on your perspective," Steve muttered, earning more strange looks for it. Taking one of Holly's hands tightly in his, he tipped his head to the others. "Go ahead."

Off his cue, the others began to rip open the papers, scraps strewn across the floor and box lids being lifted. He held his breath, Holly tensing beside him as they waited.

"Thirty-two weeks until—are you serious?!" Lisa crowed, eyes as big as saucers and filled with cautious delight as she read the stored wooden blocks in the box. Paul, sitting beside her, removed the blocks of painted wood carefully, setting them on his knees. A quavering smile bloomed, and his dark eyes shot towards his little girl. Holly grinned, her fingers wrapping tighter around Steve's palm, and she nodded enthusiastically in confirmation. At once, Lisa shot out of her seat, landing on the couch beside her and gathering her up in her arms. Laughing at the display of affection, Holly was released only seconds later, her mother springing up and pulling Steve into her embrace as well.

"Damn," his brother-in-law remarked, a giant grin on his lips. In his hand was a shot glass, the word 'uncle' laid across the surface. It was identical to the one Bucky held in his palm, but his expression was unreadable. Once released from Lisa's embrace, Steve noticed his friend's set jaw, the hard stare of his blue eyes at the little shot glass. His smile faded, and his free hand curled into the cushion beneath him.

"Bucky?" he called his name, but the other man did not respond. Standing up, Steve took a step towards his old friend, brow furrowing in confusion and, perhaps, in uncertainty. He had wanted Bucky to be included in the revelation, and Holly had not argued the point (too much), but perhaps it would have been better to wait. Finally tearing his gaze off the little glass in his hand, Bucky blinked at him. Before another word could pass the captain's lips, his friend suddenly stood, striding forward and doing something he hadn't done since the 1940's.

He hugged Steve. It was over quickly, one-armed and a tight squeeze with two sharp raps along his back, but it was still a hug. Thrown into total surprise, Steve had no time to return it, as Bucky had pulled away as swiftly as he had approached. Two sets of wide blue eyes stared at one another, and when the blond opened his mouth to speak, the other man spun on his heel, retreating to the kitchen with all haste. His shot glass was still in hand, and he left the occupants of the room in stunned silence.

"I take it that doesn't happen very often," whispered Hank _sotto voce_ to his sister eventually. However, it was the captain who answered him, shaking himself out of his shocked state.

"Not for decades," he intoned, a pleased light dawning in his eyes even as he cast his gaze to the ground. "But it's good."

"More than good, Steve!" Lisa interjected, practically vibrating as she fanned herself. "Ahh, I'm excited!"

"Another grandbaby for her to spoil," Paul murmured, regarding his wife affectionately and chuckling. Getting up from the chair, he scooped his daughter into a fast hug, breaking it off in time to extend his hand to Steve. "Congratulations."

The furor in the living room took a little time to die down, but once it did, Steve extracted himself from the space, following his friend's path into the kitchen. There he stood, elbows leaning on the island and the overhead lights on, glaring across the glass in hand. Bucky stared at it for several long seconds, before setting it down neatly and reaching for the bottle of whiskey he'd found in the cupboard. Pouring himself a shot, he glanced over his shoulder, raising it in a toast to his friend. His smirk was strained, but Steve managed to return it.

"Uncle," he mumbled, drinking his shot and letting the warmth of the liquor course down his throat. The captain circled to the opposite side, going right to the cabinet and fetching a tumbler for himself. Taking up the bottle, he poured himself a healthy glassful, tipping the tumbler in his friend's direction and grinning.

"Uncle Bucky," he replied firmly, ice blue eyes never wavering. No matter what horrors were committed, no matter what atrocities his friend had been forced into performing, Bucky Barnes was his family, his brother in bond, and nothing would change that. He was family, and he would be a part of their lives, all their lives, for the foreseeable future. Sipping from his glass, he heard a snort come out of his friend as he took back the bottle.

"I knew you were hiding something, punk," he remarked smartly, another shot poured and drained into his mouth. Steve rolled his eyes as he leaned his elbows on the counter's surface.

"You still made me squirm, jerk," he tossed back, another swallow going down his throat. Tapping his free hand on the island's edge, he went on, "We haven't told anyone else yet."

Bucky raised an eyebrow at that. "Planning on keeping it that way for much longer?"

"From the public, yes, for as long as we can." Steve's gaze slid sideways, and he sighed. "The team, though, they'll know soon enough."

"Daddy Rogers. That's gonna take some getting used to," the other man told him, both of them sporting wide grins. Bucky's drooped as he considered something, his stormy gaze meeting his friend's squarely. "How's it going to work? With being Captain America and all?"

At once, the joy in Steve's face lessened, his focus drawn to a point in the distance. It was a fair question, one that he was still seeking an answer for. The glass in his hand was twitched and turned as he thought, the lines in his forehead becoming more pronounced.

"I'm working on it. Got some time to get things straightened out before the baby comes," he confided starkly, raising the tumbler to his lips and draining the cup dry. The whiskey burned on the way down, the flush and pricks of it coating all the way down to his stomach. Determination overrode the doubt in his eyes, his stance becoming rigid. "I'll find a way. We'll find a way."

"Famous last words," a voice floated in, and the captain looked over in time to watch his brother-in-law walk in.

"Thanks, Hank," Steve muttered sarcastically. Tipping his head towards the bottle already out on the counter, he asked him, "Ready to break in your glass?"

"Oh, yeah," the other man confirmed, taking a spot next to Bucky as he poured into his own shot glass. Swiveling his head towards the arch, he called out, "Want in on this, too, Dad?"

"Which one are you talking to?" Paul cried back, the three men in the room cringing at his poor joke. Entering the room, he cupped a hand in the air, circling the island to retrieve his own glass. "Sure."

Wandering in to see what they were all up to, Lisa snickered, deciding to grab a cup for herself and join in. Holly entered behind her mother, eyes rolling heavenward at the company indulging in drink.

"Oh sure, keep boozing it up," she growled, little actual venom in her voice. Fetching a bottle of flavored water from the fridge, she moseyed up to Steve, shooting his glass a significant look. "Rub a little more salt into the wound, why don't you?"

"It's Irish whiskey, anyway, doll," he retorted, chuckling as her face scrunched in mild distaste. Even if she could drink, she was not a fan of the stuff. "Yeah, exactly."

The rest of the shots were divvied up, the younger men just about to toss theirs back when Paul held up a preemptive hand.

"Hold on," he said. Raising his hand up, the amber liquid in his cup danced. Quietly and simply, he toasted, "To family."

Steve couldn't help the smile that stretched over his lips, nor could he stop himself from bringing his wife closer to him, enfolding her in his embrace.

"What, are we all in the mafia, suddenly?" Hank wondered facetiously, pulling a face at his father's sentimental toast.

Bucky snorted, a knowing look tossed at the young man. "You wouldn't last a minute if we were, pal."

Holly nestled into Steve's side, letting her head tip back a little. "I was gonna ask when we stumbled into the greeting card commercial, but, well..."

"Just raise your friggin' glasses," Lisa commanded then, throwing a stern glare at them and bringing her cup to rest beside her husband's. It was all the captain could do to not laugh at his friend's compliant expression or Hank's glance away from his mother. Curling his arm tighter around Holly, he cleared his throat, raising his glass.

"Yes, ma'am," Steve replied stoically, the others following suit. The circle of cups (and his wife's water bottle) clinked, family saluted in a chorus of voices.

* * *

 **A/N:** Part two of the Christmas escapades. About time someone other than Steve and Holly knew about the pregnancy, right? Anyway, a lot is going on in this chapter, so feel free to discuss...now! By the way, Bucky and Natasha are just saying good-bye in Russian, in case you didn't know. And Michael Bublé is my go-to for Christmas music now and forever, as well as Idina Menzel.

Just for the record, when Han Solo died, I did not jump and scream like Holly did. I was in such a state of sorrow and shock that I just sat there and teared up. Later, my cousin and I wandered the mall for a half hour, and our conversation consisted mostly of, "How could they kill Han Solo?!" I was so angry, ugh.

Anyway, got some fun stuff coming up in the next chapter, so hang tight for that.

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any of the pop culture references made in the text ( _Robo-Cop, The Terminator, Star Wars,_ etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	13. Chapter 13

The vibrations of the cell phone on the nightstand broke through Holly's dreams, shaking her awake. Pressing her face into her pillow, she groaned in tandem with her husband, his body rolling and shifting the mattress as he picked it up. Her eyes squeezed tight against the click and brightness of the lamp as it was turned on. As Steve grumbled a greeting behind her (barely polite, but it was a lot kinder than what she would say in the middle of the night) she looked over at her clock, brow screwing up incredulously. It was nearly four in the morning, the day after Christmas. Who in the hell would be calling at that hour?

Work, her brain supplied dully, her hand swiping over her face as she sighed. It could only be someone from the base. And given the shift in Steve's voice from sleepy to alert, she knew she'd guessed right.

"What?" he crowed. Looking over her shoulder at him, she watched as his posture stiffened, his free hand twisting into the comforter still wrapped around his waist. He listened intently to the person on the other end of the line, his jaw setting and eyebrows quirking. Darting a glance at his own clock, he let out a fast breath. "...I'll be there in twenty. Half hour, tops." Another pause, and then he nodded to thin air. "Bucky, too. Right, we're on our way."

His thumb hit the button on the screen, the device dropped in the bedclothes as he moved out from underneath them. Sitting up, Holly watched as he shed his sleep pants, letting them drop to the floor.

"That didn't sound good," she muttered, raking a hand back through her hair. Shooting a look at her, Steve gave her a grim smirk, scooping up the backpack that was always perched just inside the closet and letting it flop onto the bed. The travel backpack, the one with the mini-med kit and the small bag of grooming supplies. The one he took with him whenever he anticipated a longer mission. A sinking feeling bled through her, wrenching her gut when she saw it.

"It is and it isn't," he conceded, fishing out a couple of clean shirts from the drawers. Pushing them into the bag, he grabbed up a third, changing out of the athletic tank he slept in and throwing it on. Combing a hand through his mussed tresses, he let out another sigh. "Probably will end up more towards 'isn't' by the end of it."

The twisting feeling returned, her hands coming to rest at her abdomen. Snorting, she waited until he finished packing clean boxers into the bag, her rueful expression making him halt momentarily.

"It wouldn't hurt to lie a little once in awhile, Steve," she said, attempting to take on a humorous tone. The smile he gave her didn't reach his eyes, the blue remaining stormy as he went to her and dropped a peck on her temple.

"Sorry, can't help it," he retorted mildly, another buss planted at the corner of her mouth. Going back to his packing, he was pulled up short by Holly flipping back the sheets, adjusting her shirt and pajama pants to fall straight as she got out of bed. Blinking, he wondered, "What are you doing?"

Grabbing up the car keys from where he'd left them on the dresser, she rattled them, stifling a yawn as she shuffled towards the door.

"I'll go start the truck for you, you go wake up the assassin," she murmured. Pausing in the doorway, she cut a glance back to him, her eyes lighting up as she scanned over him. "And get your pants on."

Glancing down, he realized in his haste, he had not bothered to put on jeans.

"Oh, geez," he grumbled, darting back towards the dresser himself. Shaking her head, Holly tiptoed downstairs, careful not to wake her slumbering parents or brother in their rooms. Gathering up her coat from the hall closet, she slid her feet into her old boots just as she heard Steve descend the stairs, preparing to rouse his friend. Her deep sigh was cut off by a second, shuddering breath. The freezing cold air swirled around her as she made the trek from the back door to the garage, picking her way through the darkness. Firing up the engine, she rubbed the heel of her free hand against her eyes, the last of her sleep and tranquility gone in that instant. Leaning back against the headrest, she listened to the purr of the truck as it warmed up, musing about their fortune that year. At least Steve had not been called away during Christmas Day proper. There would have been no hiding how upset and sad she would have been if she'd had to see him off then, no matter how hard she tried to stuff down the worry and the fear.

The side door to the garage creaked open, and in flooded the super soldiers. Bucky spared her a fast nod as he jogged around to the opposite side of the truck, a small bag packed and in hand. Climbing out, she met Steve by the door, immediately going into his arms after he dropped his backpack and shield onto the floor. The warmth of his body encompassed her, and she held onto him tightly as her face pressed into his shoulder. The wool of the coat buffed against her skin, but it didn't stop her from staying near. A hand snaked into her hair, and she let Steve pull her back, his mouth descending onto hers in a hard, long kiss. The bittersweet taste on his lips mixed with hers, stayed with them both when they parted, his forehead resting against hers.

"I hate leaving you like this," he breathed, nodding back towards the house. He hated leaving her, period, let alone with a house full of family to host and look after on her own. Granted, it wasn't as if there was a platoon stationed on the property, but still. However, they couldn't be as lucky as they were last year; the enemy was unwilling to oblige them that time. Her hand came up, resting against his cheek as puffs of air drifted out of her nose.

"I know. It'll be alright," she tried to reassure him, fingers sliding back into his hair and her eyes closing. She could handle it, handle her family on their last days of vacation. Her concerns were elsewhere at the moment. Tucking her hand into the opened top of his coat, she slid it under the layers and over his chest, over his heart. "Be safe, both of you."

"Same goes for you," he said, smiling wanly and his fingers trailing along her sides. A flickering glance was cast to her belly, and she nodded in response. Palms cupped her hips, dragging her back into his embrace. One last, hungry kiss was snatched, breath taken away as he kept her close for another moment or two. "I love you."

"Love you, too," she whispered, forcing herself to let him go after several more seconds. He picked up his shield and bag, securing both in the backseat before swinging himself up behind the wheel. Thumbing the sensor, the garage door slid up without preamble, and she leaned against the side door as the vehicle backed out of the space, his blue gaze catching her strained brown eyes once more before rocketing down the drive. The rumble of the truck faded after a minute or two, the rustle of the freezing wind through the trees the only sound in the night. Exhaling slowly, she slapped her hand against the wall sensor, the garage door dropping again as she left to go back into the house. The code was tapped numbly, and she shivered as she stepped into the kitchen. As she began to drag off her coat, she was startled by a clearing throat in the archway. There Lisa stood, her silvered blonde hair tied back and her bright eyes scanning over her daughter's form. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her sleep clothes were rumpled under her robe. Her gaze was filled to the brim with concern and sympathy, so much so that it made Holly ache deep down. Evidently, they weren't quiet enough, if her mother had been woken up. She dropped her coat on the nearby counter, and her boots were kicked off next as she lifted a shoulder in apology.

"I'm sorry, we didn't..." Holly trailed off as her mother's hand waved through the air, cutting her off.

"Don't worry about it, Holl," she told her, going to her daughter. Wrapping an arm around her, she began to guide her into the living room, the younger woman falling into step with her. "Come on."

Situating her on the sofa, her mother went over to the tree, plugging in the lights and letting the multicolored glow wash over the space. The glinting ornaments and star shone down on them as Lisa sat down on the far end of the couch, taking up one of the throw pillows and placing it against her leg. Patting it lightly, she waited until Holly unwrapped her arms from around her middle, laying down and resting her head against the pillow. Gently, she felt her mother's finger's comb through her hair, the two of them allowing the stillness and darkness of the early morning to enfold them.

"It'll be okay?" she asked after the silence had stretched, brushing some hair behind her ear. Holly picked at the cushion beneath her, inhaling and exhaling carefully. Tiredly, she glanced up at her mother before cupping a hand in the air.

"I...I hope so," she said, letting her palm drop. Her eyelids drooped, her mind whirring on even as her body fought against it. "It's all I can do, generally."

The forlorn note was muted, buried deep, or so she had thought, but Lisa had picked up on it, had noticed the jump of nerves when her daughter had come in from the cold. When she had come in from saying good-bye to her husband, a good man willing to give his life over and over for the world. She couldn't imagine living that kind of life, couldn't imagine being able to watch Paul go like Holly did for Steve. A surge of pity tore her, but leavened with a hint of pride at her stalwart streak.

"Okay," Lisa responded, leaving the matter at that for the time being. Instead, she focused on calming the worry and the nerves, lulling Holly back to sleep with her ministrations. She would sleep, and in the morning, the family would take care of her, she promised herself, leaning her head back and letting her own breathing go steady.

 **xXxXxXx**

The trip from the base to the helicarrier was tense, terse. Steve was not talking much, all his mind focused on the upcoming mission, and the android who served under him had little to add, keeping to himself as they flew out. Bucky was locked into his seat, his brain furiously wondering why he, of all people, had been called in as well. He wasn't due for his trials yet, or so Natasha had told him. The only conclusion he could come up with, the one that made at least an iota of sense, was that he was one of the few qualified (a dubiously-applied title, to be sure) people left at the base, one of the few who could answer a call that was put out by the SHIELD field director. The quinjet they had boarded cut a swatch through the dark sky, light inching up the farther east they went. The sun was over the horizon by the time the looming carrier came into view, a gray swatch muted by the clouds.

As they landed on the long tarmac, they were met by Fury himself, his stark, black coat bundled around him as he lifted a hand in greeting. He led the way through the bullet-colored halls, sparse sentries at various posts snapping to attention as they went. It seemed that some reconnaissance done by the field agents, and by the secondary team, had produced some interesting results, shedding some light on the problem with a major arms dealer showing up on and off over the last few months. It was time-sensitive, and so the secondary team leader and the director had wanted the captain apprised of the situation as soon as could be. To Bucky's eyes,it seemed that they wanted Steve specifically to be brought in so an attack plan could be executed as swiftly as possible, but he kept his opinions to himself as they were eventually ushered into a closed-off conference room. The space was dominated by a glass-topped table, the digital display at the far end frozen on the picture of the eagle insignia of SHIELD. At the far end of the table, he spotted Wanda, her green gaze flicking over to him and a small smile gracing her lips as she nodded in greeting. Her brother, Pietro, was there as well, narrowing his gaze on the newcomers but saying nothing. A girl with cropped black hair and sharp cheekbones had her backside resting against the table, her head tipped down as she engaged in low voice-conference with another fellow. Hearing the door whir open, the fellow turned, raking a hand through his brown hair and his bright eyes twinkling even in the harsh lighting. He recognized them as members of the secondary team, the girl being called Finesse and the guy actually being the leader of the messy outfit. Greetings were shared, stilted ones spoken by the Vision and Bucky (one because he was still unsteady about everyday social interactions, and the other because the last time he'd spoken to those people, his future was hanging in the balance).

"Fill us in, Joe," Steve said abruptly, taking a seat at the table. Sharing a confused glance, Bucky and the Vision followed, taking the chairs that flanked him on either side. From his seat, Chapman slid across a file folder, languidly kicking his legs up to rest on the tabletop. Fury gave a hard stare at his antics, refusing a seat for himself and instead clasping his hands behind his back, letting them discuss.

"Got some movement along the coast of Africa, thought it was run-of-the-mill black market ops. It's not so simple," Joe indicated, nodding to the files. "Looks like one of them has been trying his hand at getting into Wakanda. Again."

At the implication, Steve's expression went sour, and he spiked an eyebrow.

"Klaue," he muttered, sharing a look with Wanda and her brother across the table. The two of them looked just as pleased by the news, with hunched shoulders and sharp glances to one another. Bucky hadn't heard much about the Klaue character, other than that he had a hand in the whole robot business back in May. Involving the twins, too, he suspected. Perhaps he would have to consult with Wanda later on for enlightenment.

Fury came forward, resting his hands on the back of a nearby empty chair. "He's getting desperate, trying to rebuild what he lost after Ultron and Stark's siphoning of his funds."

The kid, Jeanne, snorted and pinched the bridge of her nose. "No kidding."

"Feels like there's more at play here than just trying to steal vibranium," the captain stated before the director could answer her flagrant behavior. Tapping a thumb on the table, he pointed out, "Otherwise, he would have been and gone without the fuss."

"True. He's buying up weapons and munitions all over the place, but not all of it has been sold. Half of what he's got is being turned out, but the other half just...disappears," Joe said, standing and coming over to him. Taking up the file, he paged through them until he found the sheets of paper with agents' reports upon it, spies that had infiltrated at Fury's behest. They had tracked down the split shipments, but they consistently vanished before a credible trace could be made.

"Keeping it for himself?" Steve asked, taking the papers back and looking at them closer.

"Either that, or he has a private buyer." The director drew in a sharp breath, letting the words sink before going on. "One who is looking to outfit an army."

A deathly hush fell over the room, and Bucky swallowed against the dryness that had surfaced in his throat.

"HYDRA?" he wondered aloud, daring to speak the name they all were thinking. For his part, Fury inclined his head, taking a few steps away from the table.

"Could be. SHIELD didn't die, after all," the director said, crossing his arms over his chest. "They could have just been laying low the last few months, and are waiting to make their move."

"So why go into a place that literally branded him a criminal?" Wanda inquired, face contorting quizzically. "Seems that even if he's looking for money, he'd be going somewhere else."

"It might be compulsory," the Vision piped up, his electric blue gaze sweeping over to the Maximoff girl and back again. "Either he wants the vibranium for himself, or if he has a private buyer, they want it as well."

"Or it could be meant as a distraction," Chapman theorized, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Drawing attention onto him to avoid the real issue being discovered altogether. Whatever it is."

"No matter what, he's been left at loose ends long enough," Steve pronounced, the hand on the arm of his chair curling into a fist "We need to find him and detain him, see if he'll let us know the purpose of his little end runs. Got any idea where he ran off to?"

Chapman nodded, turning and letting his back rest against the wall, files taken back to page through. "After being chased out of the country—says here by the prince, no less, that kid has some balls—it looked like he was headed south. Can't imagine he's still in his digs in Johannesburg, but there have been sightings of him around Cape Town."

Fury tipped his head to the side, his eye traveling over to the captain again. "Gonna call in the team?"

At that, Steve frowned, considering his options. There was no guarantee that Klaue would remain in Cape Town for long, now that he had been outright spotted and nearly apprehended by the Wakandan government. He would know that once he broke cover, others would be coming for him. Specifically, others with immunity to travel and detain criminals in any country on the planet. The trouble was, they could not afford to wait any longer than they had. With Sam, Natasha, and Rhodey all out of range, they would have to go with who they had on hand. Shaking his head once, he turned to look at Joe.

"Who's all here, Chapman?"

"Just me, the kid, and the twins," he said, hooking his thumb over to Jeanne and the Maximoffs at the other end of the table. The youngest member of the team shot him a dirty look for referring to her as a 'kid,' but otherwise kept her mouth shut. Catching her snappish attitude, Joe just rolled his eyes at her before continuing. "Crystal and Duquesnes were out when the info came in. They won't get here in time, and we really should make a move."

Steve's mouth set in a thin line. It wasn't ideal, but they could make do.

"Okay," he breathed out soon enough. Casting his gaze around the room, he commanded lightly, "Everybody suit up, we'll all meet on the deck in twenty. See if we can't find Klaue's hideout."

The others rose from their chairs, intent on making their way to the uniform bay set up with spares for them all to change into. A hand, though, grabbed at Steve's arm, halting him in his tracks. Looking back, he found Bucky's eyes searching his face, eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline.

"Everybody?" he intoned quietly. Cutting a look across the room, Steve and Fury stared at one another, silent conversation flowing between them. When the director merely raised his shoulder, Steve sighed, carefully prying his friend's hand off his arm. Reiterating his command, the blond man left without another word, the brunet standing stunned for a moment. Inhaling shakily, he turned his gaze onto Fury, the fellow meeting the storm brewing in his person.

"Gotta go through your trials sometime, Barnes," he explained lightly, stepping up to the table's edge once more. It was past time, in his opinion, but he had not wanted to rush where Barnes was concerned. Or, at least, not where Rogers' perception of Barnes was concerned. Still, he could see for himself that the time he spent out of active duty had been for the better, and it was time to test his progress. Turning a palm up to the air, he reported, "We'll have an evaluator set up on the scene to monitor your progress."

Pulling himself erect, Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

The uncovered brown eye tracked past him, towards the inset glass of the automatic door. Just beyond it was the android, his golden cape materializing around his shoulders and his electric eyes meeting his unerringly.

"The Vision needs something to do other than hover midair and wait for things to reach disaster level." Off the uncertain look Barnes shot him, Fury let his mouth curl in a humorless grin. "He's a clinical, analytical, unbiased party."

Blue eyes darted skeptically towards the door. "Not so sure about that."

"Whether you are or not, it's happening. He has agreed to it, and will be compiling a report alongside your commanding officer's," he stated, answering the silent question of whether Steve would be in on it, too. It would come down to this, his performance during the mission. He had known there had to be a specific reason for his coming away from the safety of the base. It was just happening so quickly, and he could barely hang on for the ride. Shaking his head, the older man gestured for him to get moving. "Standing there slack-jawed isn't gonna get your suit on any faster. Go."

Tightening his stance, Bucky drew in a sharp breath before dipping his chin. "Yes, sir."

Arguing or stalling would avail him nothing. If this was how it had to be, then so be it. It was time, he told himself, holding it in his heart and mind as he picked his way through the carrier, ready to find the appropriate gear and meet the challenge head-on.

 **xXxXxXx**

Another day dawned, the sun passing over the sky even as interminable heat swept over the place. Evening was fast approaching, though light still touched everywhere. The whitewashed warehouse just outside of Cape Town was meant to act solely as a business center, a place to handle and ship product. With his recent luck, however, it had become the base of Ulysses Klaue's dwindling operations. After the mess with Ultron, the Enhanced, and with the Avengers, he had little left to him. His reputation in the black market had suffered, his business was not sought. Employees suffered under his volatile temper, the shift in his personality so stark and abrupt that it terrified them. Contracts were becoming few and far between, and that had made him desperate. Even more so now that revenge had sat heavily on his brain. He had thought he had fallen as far as he could, that there was no were left to go but up.

Well, he was wrong. There was much farther to fall, and his current employers had helped him figure that out. Damn mercenaries, damn nameless faces. He did the grunt work; he got the equipment out of Sokovia, and for what? A tenth of the profit? Worthless. But more and more work rolled in, with promises of sticking it to Tony Stark, to Captain America, to those damned kids who forged the path between the automaton and him. They played right into his wheelhouse, or so he had thought.

He should have known that it would come to nothing. To worse than nothing, he mused as he sat in his back office. Promises instead of anything binding, it was bad business, something he swore he would never indulge in. He had been a fool, a raging, impotent fool at that, and he knew it well. Despite the very few perks, there had been no real pay-off for him. Pouring himself a glass of brandy from the stash he'd hidden in the lower drawer, he went around the room, dimming the lights until it all became shadow and shade. At least that would be to his advantage.

He knew they were coming. All right, so he didn't know which "they" it would be, but he did know that the moment he left Wakanda without the stolen shipment of vibranium it would alert all sorts of people. It was just a question of when at that point. Firing up the security camera televisions in his office, he sat and sipped, waiting. A sensor attached to his desk started to blink, the red light flashing eerily in the semi-darkness. The outer perimeter had been breached. Grunting to himself, he took up the phone, punching in the number for the correct line, orders given with a semblance of calm before he let the receiver fall into place. Setting the glass down, he moved his hand down to the gun in his holster, thumbing the safety off.

Brandy was swilled and washed down as he watched the outer doors being pried open, his men positioned and ready for the onslaught to arrive. A burst of light caught the camera, flaring as six figures darted and spread out. In the center, as clear as day, was a shield, gunfire silently reflecting off it. Of course, _they_ would get there first. Most likely just how his employers intended it to be. Snorting harshly, he downed the last of his glass, a flare of rage making him dash the glass against the far wall. Scooping out the bottle, he drank directly from it as he watched the attack play out. The captain, he was easily recognized, but the nearby companion was masked. Upon closer inspection, it looked as though he had the British flag strapped over Kevlar, a knife and pistol in hand as he spun over one of the guards, taking him down with ease. Well, more power to him, Klaue thought perversely, his dark curls shaking on his head; he never liked that guy, anyway. Little smart-arse. One fellow decked all in black was joined by a winding blur, and he gritted his teeth at the two young women working together, billy clubs and mystical powers threading through the men like a needle through cloth. Another deep swallow, and then he'd go out and take care of things himself, he promised. Replacing the bottle, he stood in time to see that the blur had disappeared from the cameras' view, and the shouts of his personal guard had increased. Standing slowly, he felt the sweet rush of the drink in his system, emboldening him to face his door without fear as it burst open.

Klaue looked on, his suspicions proven true. Spotting the male Enhanced standing there, all trussed up in a blue and gray jumpsuit, he rolled his eyes.

"Christ, you again," Klaue muttered, accented voice thick with derision. Unable to help himself, the corner of Pietro's mouth curved.

"You miss me?" he asked facetiously, stepping fully into the shadowed room. The sparse lighting danced across the older man's face as he paced away from him. The grime and dirt that had embedded itself into his skin was still prevalent, his eyes narrowing in contempt before he shifted around. Deliberately, he kept himself in profile, his left side hidden from sight.

"Little bitch came too, yeah?" he remarked, silently laughing at the younger man's low-voiced growl. Klaue's dark eyes flicked over to the television screens, narrowing in on one in the bottom right. The female Enhanced was there, ringed by his toughest men, the only ones who were given the authority to approach her. Her hands twisted and jerked, mists springing from them and passing through her assailants with nary a pause in their descent. The older man almost smiled gleefully, well imagining her panic. "Reckon she's not having an easy time out there with the boys. Worst fears don't mean nothin' to people who've already lived 'em."

The Avenger codenamed Quicksilver ground his teeth together, his obvious concern for his sister warring with the need to complete his task. She could handle herself, she could take care of herself. Forcing his eyes away from the image, he glared at the man in profile, sidestepping to keep himself between him and the door.

"Stalling isn't going to work," he ground out, hands curling into fists. "Didn't last time."

Menacingly, Klaue turned his head, gaze blackened with poorly-hidden fury.

"Maybe I'm giving you the chance to leave," he told him, his tone even as his hand cupped the pistol in his holster. Thinking he saw his game, Pietro darted forward, moving to disarm him with all speed. However, just as he had succeeded in removing the gun from the other man's grasp, he felt something cold and sharp snap around his neck. Yelping, he gripped at it, his booted feet suddenly no longer touching the floor. Slamming into the back wall, he rasped upon seeing the plated metal prosthesis Klaue sported in place of his severed left arm. Wires trailed up and around to his shoulder, a ring of blinking chips embedded into his skin. His shirtsleeve was cut away, allowing him greater mobility, and the ring of the metal as it twisted and held him in place was familiar. Instead of a hand at the end of it, though, claws extended and curled into his skin, biting roughly. Noticing his aghast stare, Klaue grinned with manic glee. His ploy had worked; perhaps he would at least take down one of the damned Avengers before it was all over. "Yeah, didn't have this last time. Impressed?"

Squeezing his claws, the tips dug into the younger man, small dribbles of blood starting to drip down his neck. Struggling to catch his breath, Pietro kicked out, slamming his foot into his opponent's side. Klaue jerked back, enough to give him ground and let him take a ragged breath.

"I've seen better," he sputtered, digging in his heels and trying to get away. The strength of the claws, however, constricted his windpipe again, and Klaue leaned in, smirking at his audacity.

"Oh yeah? Where?"

Bright eyes flicked over his shoulder, widened, and then a corner of his mouth turned up.

"There," was all the warning that the younger man gave him before a vicious blow landed across his shoulder. Dropping the Enhanced, Klaue whirled around to find the black menace from before, tact gear running over him. Eye black was smudged around his eyes like a mask, dark hair falling across his brow. An array of knives and hand guns were holstered to a belt, one of which was drawn and extended. What caught his attention was the ragged left sleeve, torn away to reveal a robotic arm similar to his, whirring and clicking as he wound up for another punch. A streak of recognition danced over his irises as he stared down the dark-clothed assailant.

Dodging it, the older man engaged him, claws snatching out to catch the wrist of his knife hand. A half-bitten groan shot out of the newcomer as metal bit through to flesh, scraping over the skin and making him drop the weapon. In the small space, there was hardly any room for hand-to-hand combat, and so Pietro was forced back to the open doorway, acting both as sentry and watching out for the soldier as he fought Klaue. The older man had no discipline, no formal training, but he had risen up from the lowest levels to the highest heights in one of the most dangerous businesses in the world. And he didn't get there merely through manipulation and savvy marketing plans. The power in his punches was concentrated, sharp, and hard, making him a worthy enough opponent for a short time. In his younger years, he was a formidable fellow. However, having crested over forty several years ago, and being years out of practice, he could not maintain his defense. Not for long, not under the intense reprisals of the Winter Soldier. Metal clashed and rang as the appendages interlocked, Barnes bending the older man's arm out far enough to butt his head solidly against his. With a grunt and a stumble, Klaue crumpled to the ground, knocked out cold.

The distant yells and screams from the warehouse's main room echoed up to them, drowning out both Pietro and Barnes's harsh breaths on and off. Tapping him with his boot, the soldier turned Klaue over onto his front, satisfied that he was unconscious and unable to fight back any longer. Kneeling down, he removed one of the smaller knives from its sheath, delicately maneuvering it to pry away the connecting wires from the chips. As he rendered the dealer's metal arm inert, he heard Pietro take a few slow steps towards him, and he glanced up. The fellow threaded a hand through his silver hair before gesturing down to their mutual enemy.

"Thanks," he croaked, swiping at the pinpricks of blood along his throat. Wanda was going to be so upset when she saw his injuries, and he imagined he would have a hell of a time explaining to Crystal when she returned from her winter holiday. Shaking his head, he looked down at his erstwhile teammate. Though he still did not completely trust the man, he could understand him. With his sister pointing out what she could feel in his soul, coming to his defense as Pietro fussed over her being in the same vicinity as him, it was easier to look past his former sins. It was less of a challenge to see the need, the hunger that burned deep down. And he had come in, fought by his side, stepped up to get him out of trouble despite knowing his early dislike. That was enough, it seemed.

Barnes dropped his gaze, focusing on securing the electromagnetic cuffs that had been secreted in one of his pouches around Klaue's wrists.

"Any time."

"Just saying, yours _is_ better," he reiterated, smirking at Barnes as he looked at him again, a befuddled expression lacing his face. Shrugging a shoulder, he muttered, "Saved my ass."

That earned him a wry smirk, and the soldier grunted, "Fair enough."

Thundering footsteps crashed towards them, and both men pulled themselves to their full heights, meeting their leaders' questioning stares with stoicism.

 **xXxXxXx**

Walking back from his short stint in the infirmary, Bucky entered the gathering room the team members were stationed in. With the higher-up grunts and Klaue successfully detained for questioning, the hodgepodge members of the East and West hemisphere teams had let the local authorities arrest the remaining members of the arms dealer's enterprise, his goods seized and his assets locked down for investigation. Returning to the helicarrier, the detainees were to be held until NATO representatives could come for them, and in the meantime, Steve and Chapman saw fit to separate Klaue from his men, see if they could get any answers to their questions. The Vision was standing guard at the door down the hall, ready to apprehend anybody who attempted to get in without authorization. Upon spotting him, the violet-face android softened his sharp gaze, nodding once in an almost salute. A little nonplussed, Barnes barely dipped his chin back.

Slipping into the observation room, he let the door fall from his grip, with it nearly slamming on the one called Finesse as she sneaked in behind him. A muffled apology fell from his lips, but she brushed it off. Her dark eyes were consumed with thoughtfulness. She had been conducting walk-bys of the interrogation room on and off over the last half hour, pausing to engage the Vision every now and again in an attempt to make herself seem innocent. Not that he bought it, of course; nobody in their right mind would. However, she was determined to sate her curiosity. Hers, and her cobbled teammates.

Scratching at the bandages along his neck (and having his hand swatted away by his sister), Pietro asked her, "You hear anything?"

"Nothing useful," she sighed, flopping into an open chair. Wincing, she shifted her hip; a massive bruise was starting to form there, with it taking a decidedly boot-shaped form. The fellows they fought had brought their A-game. Flicking her fingers through the air, she tugged off her goggles, looping them around her wrist as she combed through her hair. "Well, other than profanity, he's not saying much. Sure we shouldn't call in the Widow? Heard she was really good at this sort of thing."

Wanda spared a glance over to Bucky, both of them inclining their eyebrows at their companion's watered-down reputation preceding her.

"If he isn't saying anything in the next hour, then she'll probably be called in," the auburn-haired girl supplied, running a finger over the cuts on her arm. She had been cornered by men with high resistance to her powers, and it was only thanks to her hours of dedicated physical training that had gotten her an opening. Union Jack had sprung to her aid the moment she'd broken through their circle, the worst of her injuries being superficial ones.

Speculation flew back and forth amongst them freely, with Bucky adding very little to the conversation. His mind was occupied with the mission, with the potential screw-ups and mistakes that would get him nailed to the cross, banish him from ever thinking he could wash away the blood in his soul. What would the Vision have to say about it all? What would Steve report? It was all up in the air, suspended, and it made him nearly sick to contemplate it. His metal wrist clicked and clanked as he rotated it over and over, the tick only stopped when he felt a winding pressure still his movements. Glancing up, he saw that Wanda barely even looked at him while she cast her auras, her attention still focused on Jeanne's conjectures. Taking the hint, he forcibly made himself stop.

Soon enough, the door to the room slid open, Chapman and Rogers both stepping in. All conversation was stopped, gazes latching onto them. For his part, the captain accepted the intense focus, and Union Jack cleared his throat.

"Says he wants to speak to Barnes," he said, his Scouse accent hitting them hard as he answered the unspoken question. Flicking his bright gaze up, he toyed with the face mask hooked along one of his knives. "And only Barnes."

Stunned silence met his words, before all eyes turned to Bucky. The soldier focused on the toe of his boot, his jaw working as he considered the request being made.

"Are you serious?" Jeanne eventually barked, her eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline. Chapman rolled his shoulders back, dark amusement in his face as he fiddled with the belt pack around his waist.

"It's important, apparently."

Bucky risked a glance up then, and saw the hard set of his friend's face. It was important. It was important for them to get any information they could out of Klaue, any clue that could be shed on his activities and potential allies that could come to the fore. However, he could also see the mild reticence surfacing in Steve's irises, his unwillingness to force him into the position of interrogator. Resting his hands along the buckle of his belt, the blond man lifted his chin, a sigh breathed slowly through his nose.

"It's up to you, Bucky," he pronounced cautiously, leaving the decision in his hands. Barnes looked around at the room filled with compatriots, the expressions of worry and hopefulness dawning as he turned to each one. Squaring himself up, he exhaled sharply, taking a step forward to accept his fate.

"...Fine."

As he made his way towards the door, a hand snatching at his shoulder halted him. Chapman's bright eyes lit up, though his demeanor remained unemotional.

"No pressure, mate, but if you could get something out of him other than F-bombs and death threats, it would be appreciated," he conveyed lightly, a dry smile curling his lips. Bucky let his brow furrow, his own mouth twitching in response.

"I'll do what I can."

Both leaders escorted him out of the room, marching alongside him to where Klaue was being kept. Three soldiers on the move, boot heels ringing in the passage as they approached the violet sentry standing guard. With a few quiet words exchanged, Steve had persuaded the Vision to step back, making room for Bucky to enter the space unhindered. Before he could hit the button to allow entry, Barnes looked back to both Chapman and Rogers, a single nod punctuating the silence around them. As he opened the door and stepped in, the other men walked out of sight, down the hall in the opposite direction they had come.

Eyes scanning the room yielded very little. Sparse table, two empty chairs on one side, the prisoner on the other. In the harsh lighting, the dirt and sweat ingrained into Klaue's skin showed all the more. With his clawed hand rendered immobile, he was slumped to the right, his flesh wrist cuffed to the table to prevent him attacking. The older man watched him as he sat down in one of the abandoned chairs, pulling it up to the table's edge and waiting for him to speak. Minutes ticked by as neither said a word to the other, their breathing the only sound piercing the quiet. The clock hands wound around, and neither moved, neither spoke.

After a few minutes had passed in that manner, Bucky intentionally sat back in his seat, his arms folding over his chest.

"You wanted to see me." He gauged Klaue's response, which had remained at mere staring. "Do you actually have something to say, or is this a waste of my time?" Still nothing, and he let an exasperated breath pour out his nose. "I've played this game before, and it never ends well. Not on your side of the table, at least." The first line, a crack in the arms dealer's demeanor showed: a wince. Tapping a finger along the tabletop, Bucky seized on it, and said, "Ten seconds, or you get the bad ending."

Bucky had made it down to six in his mental countdown by the time the other man opened his mouth.

"I know who you are, soldier," the older man croaked, snickering at the quirk of Bucky's brow. Leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, he professed, "You know, they talked about you. My"—he spat out a string of curses—"employers. Always wondered when you'd turn up, whether you were captured or if you were cowering away in some hole. Looks like a little of both, eh?"

A smirk decorated his lips. The gesture was not returned. Ice met the other man's gaze, Bucky's face like flint at the implications.

"Point. Get to it," he demanded, an edge in his tone. Klaue shifted uncomfortably in his seat and coughed.

"Look, consider this a warning shot. They haven't come for you yet, but they're planning on seeing what they can do. See if they can retrieve you, bring you back into the fold. Or, at least, into their fold. Not now, of course. Not after they cut me and left me twisting in the wind." The question in Bucky's mind must have visibly flitted across his face, as Klaue nodded vigorously at it. "Yeah, distraction, and it worked. Worked too sodding well. They'll wait now." Sniffing, he spat onto the floor, the glob of saliva shining on the tile. "Well, screw 'em. They want the asset, and frankly, I'm not too keen on letting them have it so easily after all they put me through. Putting me on the map, making me the easy target." His dark, enraged gaze met his fully, the fire hitting him with every word lobbed in his direction. "So prepare yourself, soldier, for when they come. Because they are coming. For you, and for everyone else with you."

A moment of silence sat between them before Bucky sedately inquired, "Do 'they' have names, by any chance? Or was it more important for you to be distracted and not know?"

The older man shot him an evil look, and a wry snort shot out of him.

"It's complicated. Something under something else. And that's the last of it." Off the other man's raised eyebrow, Klaue scoffed and snarled, "Didn't think I was gonna make it that easy for you, did ya? Piss off."

With no more to be gleaned or cajoled out of him, Bucky rose from his seat. Exiting into the hall, he let out a slow breath, leaning an arm against the wall. Inquiries from the Vision as to his health were fobbed off, instead telling him that Klaue could be sent back to the detainment center for lock-up. Stepping away after a few moments, Barnes let his mind whirl on, his feet taking him away from the darkness he had stepped a toe into. He would report in to his superiors as soon as he got some air, got his bearings again, he reasoned to himself, purposefully striding down the hall. If they weren't listening in already, he mused darkly; he wouldn't put it past them, honestly, and particularly not past Fury.

Tuning out of the secreted listening device, Fury shared a look with the two team leaders in his office. One displayed visible distaste for the spying measures being taken, while the other had seemed to accept it as a matter of course.

"Well, now we know for sure what the ultimate goal for him was," the director remarked, leaning back in his chair. Glancing over to Joe, he watched idly as the younger man spun his mask around one finger, legs spread as he sat back and thought about what they'd heard.

"And we're left with no definitive answers as to everything else," he replied, letting the mask drop into his lap and scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Except for the threats, and the promises of more to come," Rogers announced, foot tapping against the shield perched on the floor, his helmet being rotated in his grasp. The news sat ill with them, but it was more to go on than what they had before.

"And now that he's out of play for the foreseeable future, we'll get to see who steps up to take his place," Fury predicted, his dark eyes raking over them again. Cupping a hand in the air, he spouted, "See if they can...make the same connections that he did."

Captain America and Union Jack shared a knowing glance at that, and the Liverpudlian arched an eyebrow at Fury's calm complacency.

"I assume you'll have someone on that, if they're not already," Joe said, with Steve nodding in concurrence. The director smiled at his perceptions.

"You're a smart man, Chapman," he praised him, the words carrying sharpness. The door to the office swished open then, and the Vision stepped into the space, reporting that Klaue had been sent to his cell, and the team was off to their quarters to rest. Cupping a hand in the air, the director ushered the android forward, he motioned for him to continue, the two leaders seated before him visibly squaring up for another fate-altering meeting.

 **xXxXxXx**

A light tapping came from the other side of the door. Calling out permission for entry, Bucky stood when he saw who was at the door. The Vision strode in, devoid of cape and instead swathed in a pair of khakis and a sweater. Scanning his attire, Barnes raised an eyebrow. As if sensing his silent question, the android shrugged, an almost sheepish grin coming upon his lips. A moment of quiet stretched between them, with Bucky's metal fingers starting to click and fidget as he waited for the android to state his purpose in coming. He was hoping to catch up on some sleep in the next few hours, before they caught the next quinjet back to the base. However, it seemed that the Vision had something important to impart.

As the silence grew more and more oppressive with each passing second, he was about to demand an explanation. Before he could do more than open his mouth, though, the android finally spoke.

"I have forwarded my recommendations to Director Fury, and the review council has reached a decision after consulting with your psychologist," he announced bluntly, his tone even. Nothing in his posture or his voice revealed what the decision could be, and so Bucky could only tuck his hands into his pockets and wait.

"Already?" he mumbled, carding a hand through his hair. The Vision nodded, shooting a look over his shoulder at the closed door. If he feared eavesdroppers, then he was too late; Barnes had found no less than three secreted devices in his quarters alone. They were shut down with alacrity, the saying of old habits dying hard surfacing in his mind as he did so.

"Yes. I have been delegated to inform you of the results," the android confessed. Pulling himself to his full height, Bucky waited as the Vision stepped further into the room, his hand linking behind his back. "If you wish to take it, Fury would like to begin you on mission and reconnaissance work here, before introducing you into a more public aspect of the organization."

Bucky blinked, a little stunned by the sudden and swift nature of the decision. He had not thought that Fury and whoever sat on the deciding council would come to an agreement so fast, or that they would not make him go through more trials. His worth, apparently, was proved out in the field. At least well enough to merit him a place on the helicarrier, if nowhere else. Sinking down to sit on the edge of his bed, he felt as though his head was spinning.

"For how long?" It was an important question. While no longer on a trial basis, he did understand that working with a select team under Fury's supervision would only last for a set amount of time. Someone with his skills, his attributes, would not be kept in the shadows indefinitely.

"Two months minimum, with weekly reports into the base either conducted via video call or in person, depending on your proximity to its location," the Vision told him, tugging at the cuffs poking out beneath the sweater. Discomfort flashed across his features; he was still not used to typical attire. If Wanda had not insisted, nor had her brother concurred (with an impish smile, no less) it would have been unlikely he would have kept the articles on for very long. To Bucky, he conceded, "Likely they wish these to coincide with your sessions with Dr. Gregory. If you would like, you can begin work after the New Year."

Blue eyes narrowed, and the metal fist curled. "Why isn't Fury telling me this himself, or Steve for that matter?"

"I believe they assumed you rather hear from an unbiased source, and thus make your decision with no pressure towards any direction in particular. They are giving you, as they say, an 'out.' Or perhaps the captain is."

Slowly, Barnes nodded, the strands of his hair knocked loose swinging over his brow.

"And what do you think?" he asked, taking the creature aback with his question. While it was true that the Vision and the erstwhile sergeant were not close by any stretch of the imagination, one would be remiss in assuming that they had no opinions about the other. The Vision, in his short time on the earth, was not finding the place as cut and dry as would be ideal. Shades of gray muddled everything, from the complex to the mundane. Though he was inclined to sympathize with Mr. Stark over the loss of his family at the hands of a murderer, it wasn't as simple as that. Sergeant Barnes was not the killer that he was made into, made out to be. There was more to him than met the eye, as the saying went. The repentance and the drive he displayed in the subsequent aftermath of the fall-out proved that much For that, the Vision bore him no ill will. His opinion could be given with a free and clear conscience.

"I think that, while not ideal, it is a great chance. And those are few and far between in life on this earth, I have found," he expressed carefully, slowly, piecing together his thoughts. With a wry shrug, he continued, "Despite my relatively young age. If you take it, it will change things, perhaps for the better. Perhaps for the worse. The only certainty will be the shift."

The wisdom, the truth in his words could not be ignored, and they settled on Bucky like a lead weight. His shoulders drooped as he made his consideration, ranged his options. It was the next step, another one closer to redemption, in cleansing his bloody soul. Exhaling fully, he sat up straight after a few moments, nodding once before standing again.

"Suppose I better tell Fury I'm taking it, then," he said. "After the New Year, right?"

The Vision's expression turned into one of satisfaction and relief. "No later than the fifth, or so he told me. For what it is worth, I think it a good course for you to take, Sergeant." Lighting on another thought, he partially grinned and told the man, "And Ms. Romanoff will be pleased with your progress as well."

Bucky snorted at that. "She'll just be disappointed that I won't be around as much for her to try and beat me down."

The electric blue of the android's irises seemed to glow, perceiving something that Barnes could not comprehend. At least, not yet. It was not his place, though, to comment on such a thing, and instead he just smiled cryptically. Coughing, the sergeant merely gestured for him to make his way out the door, the pair of them going out into the hall and treading down it together. At the turn, the android had pivoted to go the opposite way, his task completed. Pausing in his steps, the man called out to him, halting him in his journey.

"Well, thanks, uh, Vision..." Bucky trailed off, the name an odd taste in his mouth. Tipping his chin up, he hazarded another title, less formal and off-putting. "Viz. That alright?"

The android canted his head, turning it over in his mind. Silently, his tongue formed the shape against his teeth. As of yet, he was only referred to by his full name, or by 'him,' or—even less politely—'it.'

"Viz...nickname, shortened form," he said under his breath, trying it out again. The corners of his mouth turned up, and he dipped his chin at the sergeant. "I can agree to that."

A tentative smile passed from man to android, and with a final nod, they parted ways, intent on forging their own paths for the time being.

 **xXxXxXx**

Holly dropped her phone onto the cushion beside her, her head tilting back to look at the ceiling. Alone for the first time in days, she exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over her face. After Steve's departure two days ago, she had been nearly smothered in support by her family. Well, mostly her mother, who kept trying to find ways to keep her occupied and busy. Websites with baby names to be discussed were put forward, questions about her manuscript and what exactly had happened for the deal with the last publisher to fall through, playing games on the secondhand Wii she'd gotten three years ago (despite Lisa being absolutely hopeless at anything except the sword-fighting game, go figure)..she even got her involved in attempting a new cooking experiment for dinner one night. Anything to stop her from thinking about the dangers of Steve's life and work. And while she appreciated the effort, it was starting to drive her up the wall by the time the day of their flight home came around. It wasn't that she minded distractions; it was just the amount being thrown at her almost consistently since he'd departed. Paul and Hank were less oppressive about it, but she couldn't help but breathe a guilty sigh of relief when she was hugging them good-bye at the airport (her dad cracked a joke about her finally getting her freedom, and that lessened the tension somewhat).

With their flight taking off early in the day, Holly was left at loose ends, the twenty-eighth being her last vacation day and her hours free after that. Laundry chugged away in the washer as she did manage to make a call in to the literary agent, who had emailed her about a new prospective publisher. They had taken some time to read her submission, and thus far the prognosis looked good, but a more definitive answer would be had by the next week. One call turned to another, checking in with Sarah and inquiring about her Christmas as she put things away, put the house to rights. The petite blonde was looking into shopping for dresses in January, despite the fact that her wedding wouldn't even happen until the end of August. Still, she made tentative plans to meet her in New York City in several weeks' time, leaving her to wonder how much she would be showing by that point. And then...quiet.

The click of the furnace alternating blowing heat and sitting still, the creak of the floorboards beneath her feet as she trekked up and down the stairs to put away laundry and the presents still lying around the house, the tap of her fingers at the keyboard of her laptop as she was struck with an idea for a short story were all that she heard for several blessed hours. A text came in from her brother when her family's flight had landed, but otherwise her phone remained silent. No calls, no other messages. Steve had not called in for a long while, a single text telling her that he was alright the day before being the last she'd heard from him. She could only assume he was still, that some grave injury had not befallen him. The news had reported that, beyond a raid in Cape Town—South Africa, again, she scoffed to herself—the Avengers were well, or as well as they could see through shaky cam footage and guesstimates. Either way, it looked like she would be going on her third night sleeping alone, she thought to herself. Wrapping the blanket on the back of the sofa tightly around her shoulders, she grabbed up one of the new books she'd received up from the shelf before walking around and arming the house security for the night. Trudging up the stairs, Holly tried to psych herself up for going back to work the next morning; at the very least, it would provide ample opportunities to indulge in new information on her own time.

Nestling in the bed, she subconsciously shifted over towards Steve's side as she read, his pillow propped up behind her head as she rested. Hours slid by as she was lost in the author's world, crisp pages turned as the minutes wore on. It was when she realized she'd read the same passage a minimum of four times without comprehension that it was late. Warding off sleep was a bad idea; she already went into work tired and bleary as it was, and did not wish to exacerbate the problem intentionally. Taking a last look around the empty room, she rolled over, letting the book drop to the floor as she turned off the lamp. Quiet, calm, her own breathing bringing her into the darkness, blocking out the steady hum of anxiety and fear...

It came in waves, the little noises that woke her an hour or two later. The snap of an opened and closed door. Hushed voices, their timber deep and steady. Footsteps working their way around the stairs, names called to each other as they bid one another good night. The creak of the bedroom door as it was pushed in, the click of it when it swung shut. A muffled thump of cloth hitting the floor was followed by a vibrating metal clang muted by the carpeting. The mattress dipped behind her, a low grunt reaching her ears as boots dropped one by one to join it. She shivered slightly when the sheets were lifted up, the waft of cooler air soon banished as body heat washed over her. An arm slipped under her, coming across her chest and the hand coming to rest on her shoulder. The other drifted down, pulling her against him as his palm splayed over her belly. Relaxing into his touch, Holly smiled to herself.

"—Home, Stevie," she muttered sleepily, eyes still closed. At the rarely-given nickname, he grinned, noting how far gone she was to be using it. His grip around her increased, one jean-clad leg entangling with hers and the belt buckle flush against her lower back.

"Yep, home," he affirmed, exhaustion coloring his voice as well. A deep sigh coursed out of him, warm breath tickling her neck as his lips pressed against her skin. "Missed you."

"Missed you, too," she said, relishing his touch, his heat. The hand along her abdomen pulled away then, and she just stopped herself from pouting. The thud of something hitting comforter next to her caught her attention, glowing light burning her eyelids. She squinted when she opened her eyes, blinking rapidly to dispel the pain.

"You left your phone downstairs," Steve mumbled cheekily, reaching over and tapping the dropped device, the notification blinking across the screen. One missed call, she noted; of course, he would call her when she'd abandoned the device entirely. She snorted at that, drawing her hand out from beneath the sheets and pulling his arm back under as the screen went black.

"Yours is still in your pocket," Holly retorted, shifting her hip and pressing back against the other lump digging into her. Groaning, he quickly removed the offending device and tossed it out to join hers. The hand returned to her side, sliding beneath her shirt and stopping along her curve again. Tracing a finger along the forearm cradling her, she inquired, "Wanna talk?"

"In the morning," he slurred his promise, another kiss dropped into her hair before he settled down behind her. It would take time, explaining the capture of Klaue, the promise of more on the horizon, and Bucky's advancement, and at that moment, he wanted to just hold his girl, be at peace with her. At that moment, he just wanted to be home. "Sleep, sweetheart."

Dipping her chin, she brushed her lips against his arm, savoring his hold and glad enough to have him back as they both drifted off.

* * *

 **A/N:** See, I told you guys you just had to hang on for the fluff to give way to something else. :) Got some mixed team action going on here, which is something I wanted to try for awhile. And Bucky's rising little by little. Good thing, right? Christmas is over, and we will be advancing into the New Year very shortly.

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text, including those from Marvel comics, etc.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	14. Chapter 14

The subsequent investigation into the captured records and assets of Ulysses Klaue had not yielded much more than the man himself. When the others had returned from their winter sojourns, Steve and Bucky had relayed all that they had found on their own, which was not much. Even with Natasha falling onto the new findings with gusto, with her expertise at ferreting out the small details, there was not much to add. Apart from his dire threats and warnings, there was no evidence of the outside employers who had used him, except for the detailed surgical and rehabilitative notes in regards to his new, metal arm. What the Avengers did find, however, was enough in cargo manifests and mining of his computer data to at least keep him locked up indefinitely. It had jarred the balance in the black market underworld, and they would wait to see who would fill his place. They would wait to see if his threats would ever come to fruition. In the meantime, there were other calls to answer, other missions to go on. Other things to take care of.

From there, the business of heroes continued as usual, and the others surrounding them did their best to keep up. In the archives department, new projects were found and assigned, with Holly being accorded some transcripts from a few recon missions into Romania from the 1960's. In between those, a second appointment with the OB had been scheduled, with Steve barely able to make it with her (he'd cut it down to the wire, returning from a mission literally minutes before her departure). It was much shorter than the time before, but they had come away with something better than pamphlets and pills: the first sonogram. Multiple copies were printed, excitement filling Holly as she held onto hers. Steve could not tear his eyes away from them for long; unspeakable, deep emotion made him inarticulate as he traced a finger along the outline. Around the tiny head, circling the still-forming body, it shook him to the core even as a giant smile stretched his lips. The image of him doing so was seared into her heart and mind.

Also, there was the imminent departure of Bucky Barnes, yet again. Having completed his trials, he was given a week's grace period to wrap up anything that was awaiting him back in New York before being tasked to the helicarrier for work. Sadly, it appeared that a week was about six days too long for preparations, but the ex-assassin was not about to rush himself out. He took his time, resuming his training and gathering himself as the days slid from one to the next. Too quickly, the fifth rolled around, a detachment of new recruits joining him on the platform to head out to the helicarrier. As the quinjet was prepped and the others bustled to and fro, he took his time to say his farewells. Steve had worn a look akin to pride as he clapped him on the back, wishing him luck for the next few weeks. Holly, who was unable to see him off, had bid him farewell over breakfast, squeezing his shoulder gently before she had left to get to work herself. That gesture went a long way to assuaging things between them, her small smile meaning more than it had in previous days. Unlike last time, Natasha would not be escorting him out, and so she had stood off to one side, hands tucked into pockets as he approached her. Scratching the back of his neck, he was about to offer her a handshake farewell and a thank you when she stepped forward, resolutely wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in tightly. To say he was shocked at such an open embrace was an understatement; even Steve's eyes had boggled a little at the sight. Bucky was barely able to return it before she was stepping away, a demand for him to report in by the next week on her lips. The dancing light in her bright eyes stayed with him as he waved farewell and boarded the jet, occupying him as the recruits murmured around him.

Two Sundays had passed since the South African raid, and Holly had found herself busying herself with weekly chores. After chatting with her literary agent, she had forged a connection with a new publisher, intent on discussing terms with them within the next several days. Her hopes for a better outcome that time played in her mind, the possibilities of the future tripping through her mind as she unwrapped the garlands from around the door and windows, packing them away. Carrying down the last box of decorations when she'd finished—she had been stalling in getting most of the Christmas stuff put away, with the exception of the tree the previous week—Holly paused at the foot of the stairs, resting against the bannister. For a few moments, she watched as Steve blithely continued with his exercises, ignorant of her presence. He'd been at it for awhile, as evidenced by the long, branching line of sweat that darkened the back of his gray shirt. Arms pistoned, striking hard against the bag suspended from the ceiling and rocking it. Apparently, the early morning run before church in the freezing cold had not done enough to release his pent-up energy, and he had been hard at work since then to let out the stacking aggression. Staring at his hard line and the tight coil of him, Holly eventually shook her head, smiling to herself and deftly holding down her own aggression. Moving off towards the laundry area, she moved to the shelving unit along the back wall. Pulling out the step stool with her foot, she climbed up to put the box on the top shelf. As she slid it towards the back with a grunt, she bumped into the shelf below, her stomach peeking out from the rise of her shirt. Folding back the cloth, she traced along the curve, along the few small weals that had embedded themselves into her skin.

"This does not look like a fat bump anymore," she crooned, the same thought she had that morning as she dressed finally spoken aloud. Sighing, she let her shirt drop back into place, let it hide the bump and stretch marks. A chuckle sounded from behind her, and she turned in time to see Steve standing there, sweat glistening on his face and drinking from the water bottle he held. Evidently, he had finished with his boxing bout; four hours must have been deemed good enough. Leaning against the far wall, his bright gaze slid over her form, affection and something deeper lighting them. She examined him as well once she turned, smirking as she noted his sweaty brow and the way he plucked at his shirt in an attempt to cool off. Spotting the hand wraps wound around his knuckles and tutting under her breath (why the man still neglected to use proper gloves was beyond her), she stepped away from the shelving unit, ready to take care of it. Taking one of his hands, she picked at the secured end point, winding the wrap around her own fingers as she undid the loops. Around the wrist, the thumb, wrist again, through the fingers. Over, under, and over again; she reckoned there had to be something almost therapeutic about it all, wrapping the hands before kicking the crap out of a stationary bag of grains and sand.

"It never looked like that in the first place, doll," he was telling her as she worked, placing the water bottle on top of the closed washer lid. Brushing the drooping strands of his hair away from his brow with his free hand, he watched as she flicked a glance up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

"I really hope you're saying that because you already know what's in here, and not that I've always looked fat so it made no difference," she half-teased, a mocking frown decorating her lips as the last wrap came free. Tossing the cloth away, she suppressed a snicker as he groaned in response, letting her start on the other hand.

"Don't go picking fights when you know what I meant," he admonished lightly, flexing his unwrapped fingers. She snorted at that, a muted giggle in her throat. Oh, he wanted to talk about picking fights, did he? It was brushed aside, though, as she stuck her tongue out at him, Steve shaking his head and grinning at her. Hooking his thumb into his sweats pocket, he nodded down at the growing curve of her. "But you're right: people are going to be able to tell from here on out, I think."

Wan smiles were shared, but she could tell his didn't reach his eyes. Although there was a great amount of happiness and pride in his expression, Holly wasn't foolish enough to believe that any of it had eradicated Steve's anxieties. Or her own, for that matter. They were upon the last days of secrecy and privacy with their unborn child, and when that ended, the microscope of the world would focus even harder on them. Once the word got out about Captain America and his wife procreating, the edges of their safe haven would contract, the chances of danger would increase. A part of her was relieved to still have her job at the base. Though it was (more than likely) going to feed the gossip mill, she did at least feel safe there, behind the thick walls and with a veritable battalion of agents and crew members standing between her and the potential evils of the world. And the team, too. Or, at least, she hoped they would stand with them on it. It was happening, one way or another, but support was always appreciated, and if they could get that, then well, bully for them. If not, then she had Steve, his shield, and an electrified bat to accompany her pepper spray.

Reality had a way of weighing down optimism, she thought to herself.

"If they haven't already picked up on the earlier context clues," she muttered aloud. The end of the wrapping came away, and she dropped it to join the first skein. Taking a few steps away from him, she settled her hip against the far wall, crossing her arms over her chest. "So, how do we approach this?"

Steve blinked, a corner of his mouth lifting. "If you have any ideas, I'm all ears."

She tapped a finger against her chin for a few moments, and then she facetiously suggested, "Announcement over the PA system too much, you think? It would get it done in one shot, and you do give rather rousing speeches."

"Yeah, well, that might be a little over-the-top," he remarked playfully, snatching up the water bottle and draining it. Carefully propping it by the wall when he was finished, he opened the washer. A load of sheets had to be done, and it wouldn't hurt to throw his workout clothes in with them. Dumping in a cupful of detergent, he considered their options. Over his shoulder, he posited, "We could do it tomorrow night. Communal dinner at the base will be happening since everyone will be on-site, barring any emergencies."

Holly inclined her head as she pondered that; communal dinner was something the team tried to achieve as often as they could. When time and missions permitted it, of course. It had started as a way to facilitate bonds and understanding between the varying members, to bridge the gaps and make them a better-functioning unit, but over time it had become so much more. Even with the couple having moved into their own home, they too tried to attend the dinners when they could. The practice had fallen by the wayside in December, with so much happening, but they had all resolved to resume it in the new year. It would be a simple, easy way to make an announcement to them all, given how they would all be in one place. She could readily agree to that, and did so.

"Okay, and we'll just proceed as normal then during work," she summed up, his concurrence made plain. Tapping her fingers along her arm, she inquired, "Mind if I invite Kay to it? I would like her to know, too."

Close friends were hard to come by, she reasoned inwardly, in the new world she was occupying. Kay had proven herself to be a good companion, and she felt she could trust the other woman enough to tell her the truth. Steve tipped his chin up at the request before cupping a hand in the air.

"I don't think anybody would have a problem with her coming along," he stated. A cheeky glimmer filled his gaze as he continued, "Not Sam, at least."

"Right," she replied absentmindedly, reaching up and tightening her ponytail. When the last words of his sentence registered, her eyes whipped up to meet his gaze. For a moment, she could only gape at him, and he grinned blandly back at her. Once it all processed, she exhaled sharply and lifted a shoulder. "Well, guess that secret's officially out, then."

Steve snorted, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Has been for awhile, though they still pretend otherwise, publicly. You should've heard some of the excuses Sam has given me to cover up meeting with her. I've seen soggy newspapers hold up better than some of the lines he's fed me. Had to tell him to drop the pretext, eventually."

"Wow..." she breathed, before a mischievous look dawned. "We gotta make them sit next to each other at dinner."

"If you're gonna try to stir them up," Steve proclaimed, toeing off his shoes and taking his socks off, "count me out. I will take no responsibility for your conspiracy."

Her eyes narrowed, spying the wry smile he was trying to hide. "Will you stop me, though? That's the question."

His expression smoothed out then, showing nothing but confidence and placidity. "I think I can trust you to make the right decision here."

Dropping the socks into the washer, he made quick work with removing his sweatpants. Fishing his wedding ring out of one of the pockets (he wanted to save it and his fingers any potential damage while throwing jabs), he pushed it back on before depositing the pants as well. Canting her head, she halfheartedly raised a fist skyward, giving it a mild shake and twisting her face in faux disgust as she abandoned her plans for the pair.

"Curse you, Rogers," she gasped, her tepid attempt at sounding menacing making him laugh outright.

"Heard that before, just in a more long-winded form. You sound infinitely better, though, and are," he asserted, fondness lighting up his irises. "No matter what you plot."

"So I'm a nice villain, then?" She pressed a palm over her heart, adopting a look of shock and wonder. "Perish the thought of you being married to someone so devious."

"Eh, we all have our faults." He smiled broadly, dropping his shirt into the washer as she giggled again. Devoid of everything but his boxers, the cooler air sent a bit of a shiver down his spine as he bent and retrieved the waiting sheets from the basket. He could practically feel his wife's eyes burning him as he finished loading the washer, the lid falling into place as the cycle started. Pivoting back to Holly, he caught the dart of her gaze down his body, something he returned in kind. Barely holding back on a smirk, he held out his hand to her. "Shower time, come on."

She scoffed audibly at that, her fingers curling at the hem of her shirt. "Uh, I'm not the one who reeks of gym funk, honey. And even if I did, both of us will not fit in the shower down here. Even if I wasn't preg—what are you doing?"

Her rebuttal was stymied by his sharp turn, by the impish cast of his face, and her brow furrowed. Swiftly, he covered the space between them in less than five seconds, draping his arms around her and pulling her in close. Wrapping her into a very warm, very sweaty hug, Steve locked his arms tight as Holly squirmed and rocked against him, trying to loosen his hold and let her go.

"Oh, God, Steve, stop!" she groaned, squealing a little when his hand came up to cup her head and press her face into his chest. He couldn't quite quell the laughter as she struggled against him, her retching crow mixing with it. A few more seconds passed before his palms went to her waist, allowing her to bow back a little. She brought up two fingers, tracing along her now-dewy face and neck, her scowl not holding so much ire as something else altogether. His own gaze darkened upon seeing it, and he tugged her hips against his, with her stepping forward of her own volition and hands splaying upon his skin.

"There, no excuse now," he breathed. He gripped her elbows and started to move her with him, walking them both away from the laundry area and towards the steps. "And our shower upstairs is plenty big, sweetheart."

Dark eyes dilated at the implication, and Holly met his desirous gaze with her own. A flush ran through her, then, worming through the discomfort of having Steve's workout sweat all over her face and arms. Another layer was added as he cradled her head, his mouth claiming hers, her softness molding against his tones and cut. It felt so good, the intimacy that had stalled a few weeks ago returning full force to them. He'd caught her on a decent day, wherein she did not feel as sore as she had previously, where she felt nearly like her old self again. She didn't know if he had perceived this, or if he was just incredibly fortunate in his timing, but she did not want to question it. Breaking away from his hungry lips, his questing tongue, she gathered her breath, tugging at the short strands of his hair.

"You're lucky...you're lucky..." she stuttered, unable to form a retort or reprimand. Swallowing hard, she let her need flare up, ready to meet his. Reaching down, she threaded her fingers with his and maneuvering around him. Leading the way up the stairs, she merely blurted, "You're just lucky, you know that, right?"

The chuckle he gave was downright sinful, the timber of his answering tone making her move at double time.

"Believe me, I know," he whispered, matching her pace eagerly. Her murmurs about thankfulness and second winds were lost in their haste, but the words were appreciated fully despite that.

 **xXxXxXx**

Monday evening rolled around soon enough, the dreary work day melting by so quickly Holly barely registered it. Clock in, clock out, and she met up with Steve at his office before she knew it. At least formal wear wasn't a requirement; she could get away with her loose-fitting blouse and the biggest jeans she owned (tight as they were feeling at the moment). Upon passing the security points and entering the communal areas of the Avengers' apartments, Steve and she waved their hellos over to the chefs for the night. Wanda waved back with a salad fork at them, and the Vision tipped his head in greeting as well. The auburn-haired woman handed the utensil off to him, imploring him to keep mixing the greens as she consulted a recipe on a nearby tablet. The others were wandering in from their separate quarters, back slaps and handshakes exchanged. When a certain blue-haired agent came in, her temporary access pass tucked away discreetly, she made a beeline for the other non-Avenger in the room. Kay was looking well, her time spent in the equipment testing department hitting a new stride; some of the fellows were looking to incorporate a titanium weave into some of the tact gear, making it more durable and providing better protection from straight-on attacks. As well as that, she'd brought out her iPod, sharing one of the ear buds with Holly and selecting the newest musical import on the device. The album was from one of the new hits on Broadway, the play about one of the founding fathers. Though the agent had never been particularly fond of the genre, she was addicted to the beat and the intelligence of the lyrics, and she had been listening to it nearly non-stop since she'd received it for Christmas. Digging the beat herself, Holly had begged her to send her the links, abandoning her bag and humming along. Steve sneaked a look out the corner of his eye, spotting Sam's pleasure reflecting in his gaze before snickering to himself. Natasha came over and took a listen for herself, marking herself up for the burn queue just as Rhodey poked at a container on one of the end tables. Lifting the lid, he peeked at the assortment of cookies within, snatching a hand away just as Sam slapped it back into place. His mother had airmailed them for all to indulge in, but not until after dinner was had.

The culinary exercise that the Maximoff girl and the android had participated in had actually turned out decently. Granted, it would've taken some talent to totally wreck chicken parmesan, but it was still a good effort for them. Particularly as neither were completely inclined to cooking, generally (Wanda, more often than not, had to cook back when she lived with Pietro, mainly because he was monumentally terrible at it. However, she was more willing to do so now). As fate would have it, Kay and Sam did end up sitting next to each other, both of them expressing pleasantries but no overt affection. Sitting across from them, Holly had to silently thank the powers that had conspired in her favor for that, as she could easily spot one or another sneaking sidelong glances as they ate or their brief touches as they passed dishes. What she missed was the conspiratorial wink passed from the Enhanced girl to the redheaded ex-agent from the opposite ends of the table, congratulating each other on a job well done. Rhodey, from his position at Kay's left, toasted the two cooks, the Vision nodding and grinning beside Steve as the rest joined in his chorus. He even partook of the meal, saying he was adhering to the colloquial rule of only a bad chef would not eat his own creation. At least there was enough to go around; pasta dishes of any variety made for a good group meal.

The conversation was tenuous at first, as talking shop had to be edited somewhat for the unauthorized parties in the company, but in time a couple of funny stories broke the ice. Kay had shared about her mother's addiction of buying as-seen-on-TV items, and how she'd been gifted everything from booties for chair legs to a set of pajama pants that looked like jeans. The worst part was having to model the pajama pants, and finding out they had matched the shade of her hair exactly. The mister and missus of the group let the voices chatter around them, pitching in their two cents on occasion. They would wait, wait until the end of the dinner before unloading the truth onto the others. Gently, Steve's palm slid over Holly's knee, thumb stroking against the material of her jeans before she reached down herself. An illicit grin passed between them as her fingers threaded with his.

"Hey, hands above the table, you two," Sam chided playfully from across the table, sizing up the married couple with a teasing eye.

The captain arched a brow at that, faint amusement in his tone. "Really?"

Pointedly, he flicked his gaze between the fellow and the blue-haired woman beside him. A spark of apprehension streaked over Kay's eyes, but she otherwise held her pleasant expression. Sam's smirk lessened somewhat, but he remained as stoic as her. Breathing sharply out of his nose, Steve guided their hands up, resting them on the table and showing how their fingers were interlaced. Nothing wandering, nothing inappropriate or untoward was happening between them. Holly curled her hand a little tighter in his, the minor tremors hidden in his solid grasp. Satisfied in their conduct, Sam gave them both a nod of approval, another forkful of food disappearing into his mouth. Tacitly, Holly shot a glance at Kay, who shifted slightly in her seat and brought her free hand to rest on the flat surface. It remained there, but she cottoned onto the fact that Sam's had remained out of sight. And leaning slightly towards her.

Another glance passed between Steve and her. That cheeky bastard. He was just lucky the table they were at had an opaque top.

The conversation around them ebbed and flowed, moving from Wanda's travails with her brother in London to Rhodey's wrangling of nieces and nephews over Christmas, stories that there was no time to tell up until then. As the chat and banter went around them, Holly smiled pleasantly enough, her food picked at slowly. Spying her reluctance in every bite, Steve scooted nearer to her with his chair, leaning closer and using the cover of the voices around them.

"You gotta eat, doll," he whispered in her ear, fingers squeezing hers. Annoyance flared up, her dark eyes flying up from her plate to meet his. The lack of actual reproach in his gaze brought her up short, but she did manage to say something.

"Trying," she replied, attempting to squash the cattiness in her tone. His concern was well-meant, but it wasn't like she was avoiding eating on purpose. She just dreaded what was coming. Dipping her chin once, she let go of his hand, wandering away from the table to the bag she'd left lying in the sitting area. Withdrawing a small bottle, she unscrewed the lid and tipped out a couple tablets before tucking the bottle away again. Moseying back to the table, she set the tablets to one side, ready for her when she needed them. Off the questioning looks that were shot in her direction, she picked her fork back up and shrugged. "Heartburn's a bitch."

"Hear ya on that one, sister," Rhodey concurred, tipping his head to her in a wincing salute. She snorted at that, lifting hers and doing the same to him. The first flare started not too long after that, the marinara driving it up, and so she dutifully swallowed her tablets. It was easier to handle than some other developments of pregnancy, and thus far hers hadn't been too bad. Nothing to do but tough it out and get through it. The cookies were eventually brought in, a real homemade treat which paired really well with the wine Natasha had furnished for dinner (as discovered when she ingested both at once).

"Sure you don't want some, Holly?" she prompted the other woman, knowing her preferences towards reds.

Automatically, Holly canted her head in denial, a rueful grin on her lips as she sipped from her glass of water.

"No thanks, I'm good."

"Some wines actually aren't bad with heartburn," Sam pointed out. Taking up the nearest bottle, he missed the rigidity flooding Holly's posture while squinting at the label. As Natasha narrowed her gaze at her, he continued, "Pretty sure this one has low acidity."

"It's bad for her, no matter what," Wanda suddenly interjected then, catching the rest of the table's attention with her pronouncement. Confused gazes darted to the other young woman in question and back to her, ricocheting over Steve on and off. Her green eyes connected with Holly's brown, both sets broadening as each word hit home. Beside her, the captain's jaw was set, pink flushing up his neck into his face. Realizing she had spoken her objection out loud, she swallowed thickly. "Uh..."

Holly's eyebrows inclined and she shot a look to her husband, who met it with one of his own before covering his mouth with his palm.

"I told you," she said, nudging Steve with her elbow. He closed his eyes, but not before she caught a glimpse of them starting to roll. Sighing, she edged her glass further away, forcing a small grin onto her lips before facing the auburn-haired woman again. "Should I make the announcement, or should you, Wanda?"

"I, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" A waving hand cut off her apology.

"Don't sweat it," Holly said, running a finger over her scar briefly. "It was on the docket for the evening, anyway."

The mild confusion around the table's occupants was still evident, and Sam felt his eyebrows shoot up.

"Um, what was?" he prompted, wanting her to get to the point. With a captive audience, with the moment upon them, Holly felt her tongue tie slightly. Seeing her stiffen, Steve cleared his throat, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back and rubbing soothing circles.

"There was something we wanted to tell you guys," he started, swallowing again and breaking into a shy smile. With a last glance darted to his wife, he told the others, "We're, uh, we're having a baby. Due July 27th."

Unnatural quiet followed, and Holly had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from wavering too much. Especially when the assortment of gazes riveting into her weren't wholly reflecting surprise.

"Please tell me some of you didn't know already," she said, injecting levity into her tone even as her eyes darted between team members. That appeared to shake them out of their stunned postures.

Rhodey raised a hand at that, dark eyes wide. "I didn't."

Natasha canted her head, fiery hair shifting as she smirked. "Didn't have any solid leads, but I knew something was going on."

A snort was barely stifled; of course, the Black Widow would suspect. Sam and Kay shook their heads in tandem, the bewildered expressions on their faces saying it all. When she turned to hear the Vision's answer, Holly was not totally astounded to see the wry grin. His electric blue orbs dropped down, the pupils contracting and dilating. It was an action he did regularly when he was considering, thinking... _seeing._ A sharp intake of breath rattled her when she realized that perhaps he had seen more than what was on the surface.

In answer to her unspoken discernment, he inclined his head at them both. "I wanted to respect your wishes in regards to telling others, whatever they were. Congratulations, Mrs. Rogers, Captain."

Gratefully, Steve nodded, taking Holly's hand in his once more. "Thank you."

A chorus of congratulations erupted around them, then, once the shock had completely worn off. It was somewhat endearing, listening to Natasha wax eloquent on her impeccable qualities as an aunt, and suggesting that certain names or their derivatives might be better than others with a wink. The colonel was a bit reserved, hesitant, but he did clap the captain on the shoulder. Brief, mumbled apologies from Sam were fobbed off; it wasn't like he'd poured wine down her throat instead of talking it up. It hadn't hurt anything, and so she brushed it off. Relief flooded through them as the news settled, both sides of the family now told. Green eyes alternately darted and skittered away, and Holly had to breathe out her giggles through her nose.

"How long have you known?" she inquired, giving Wanda the chance to not feel contrite and awkward any longer.

The other woman gave her a sheepish smile, combing her hair to fall to one side. "Weeks. It is very hard to concentrate on a single soul when two are in the same body."

"Damn. Should've just gone to you, could've avoided the blood test altogether. The first one, at least," Holly scoffed, the deadpan look on her face making the other woman giggle. After a pause, her tentative grin started to slide, and with an edge of insecurity, she wondered, "There is just one in there, right? I mean, we got the sonogram and all, but—"

The Maximoff girl lifted a palm in placation, assuring her, "Just the one. You won't suffer like my mother did. Or so she liked to tease us."

As the evening wound down, it felt as though it were a success. However, their final announcements had to be made, and Holly prepared to address those as she followed Steve to the elevator. Having scanned in the copy of the sonogram into her computer several days ago, she had transferred it to her phone, ready for the last people she had in mind. The first two were contacted easily enough (and at least the lines would be secure; finally upgrading to Stark Tech was worth it). She had been dying to tell Sarah for weeks now, and with the team finally made aware, she could share the news. And Clint Barton was still a friend to them both, a friend who had gone through a similar experience with having children and a high profile life. He was still a part of the team, no matter how far he had gone or what he had chosen to do. The last, though, took a great deal of thought. Attaching the photo one last time to the particular number she had in mind, she bit her lip, considering the message she would send with it for a long while. It wasn't until they had pulled into their garage that she had thought of what to say. Tapping the letters quickly, she turned the screen to Steve, silently asking him if he would still be okay with sending it. For a long while, he stared at the words on the screen, sadness and stillness enveloping him. Slowly, cautiously, he nodded, his thumb moving with hers as they pressed the send button together.

Miles away in Manhattan, in the beacon of the Avengers Tower, a cell phone vibrated. The incoming notification made the device rattle in the pocket book it had been stashed in. Soon enough, a pale hand dipped in, retrieving it. Unlocking the screen, the recipient's eyes widened at the number featured below the text message bubble, stopping her in her tracks. It had been some time since Pepper Potts had received any sort of message from Holly Rogers; due to the nasty shock and subsequent spiral Tony had gone through a month ago, the captain's wife had taken his silence edict to heart as well as her partner. It had extended even to her, as she did not want to intrude in case Pepper was just as infuriated about what had happened. Indeed, she was deeply upset about the entire matter; time and again, she had been a witness to Tony's pain over the years, the loss of his parents having broken a part of him that would never fully heal. It made her almost want to delete the message. Almost. Curiosity (and her remembered liking for the sender) drove her, made her thumb tap against the screen again. As the image before her lit it up, she let out a small gasp, her hip coming to rest against the couch she had circled around. For many long moments, she stared at the phone, at the message's contents, her mind roiling and a flush running through her. Slowly, hesitantly, she dragged her gaze up, looking towards the back of the penthouse. Conflict warred in her even as she came to a decision. Numbly, she carried herself back towards the bedroom, heels kicked off on the way to keep herself steady as she walked. Pushing in the door, she swiped a loose strand of red hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. Looking across the room, she met Tony's dark gaze in the mirror, his hands smoothing down the attire he had chosen for dinner out that evening. He'd wanted to take her out, show off his girl since she was in town for the next several days. Lamplight washed the room in a golden glow, accentuating his build and his dark features well. The low whistle he let out at her up-do and dress broke her out of her staring, and she managed a weak smile for him.

"Hey, Pep. Almost done with this," Tony told her, fingers making quick work of the tie he'd been assembling before she'd come back. Speaking of, she was supposedly going off to find Happy, tell him to get the car ready. Clearly something had happened, if her pale face and loose clutch around her phone was any indication. Spiking an eyebrow, he asked, "Something wrong?"

Pepper cleared her throat, shooting a look back at the device between her fingers. Coming fully into the room, she crossed the space until she was beside him.

"No, nothing's wrong," she told him, all joviality replaced with dreadful seriousness. Unlocking the screen on her phone again, she held it out to him, her bright gaze holding his brown one for the moment. "Just take a look at this."

Blinking carefully, he accepted the device, shooting it a fast look. And then he looked at it again, examining it closely. The curved swipe of black and white strands revealed a blot in the center, a small, oblong oval with little dots jutting from it. In the back of his mind, the terms describing what he was staring at were being backlogged. It was the name at the top of the picture that had the blood draining from his face, eyebrows scrunching in furious concentration. A sharp glance was shot at Pepper, who merely nodded that it was real, it was the truth. Noting the text underneath the picture, he took a deep breath, reading it slowly.

 _ **Our first sonogram at nine weeks. We're at eleven weeks now. No matter what, we still wanted you both to know when everyone else did. If you want to delete this message and number afterward, you can.-HJR**_

Long, tense silence filled the air, and then the billionaire coughed.

"Well, you didn't delete it," he muttered wryly. The strained grin Pepper gave him went unnoticed as his jaw quirked, eyes flicking from side to side as he thought about the information presented. He blinked once, twice, and then he looked to her again. Astonishment and incredulity bloomed on his features, and off her quirking brow, he spoke his musings aloud. "When he...when they told me about...she was pregnant already then." A shaky breath was inhaled, and he closed his eyes. "And Steve told me, anyway."

She inclined her head, having come to the same conclusion herself. Despite the risk and the cost, the truth had still come to light. Barnes alone had risked quite a lot in telling Tony what had happened to his parents; it was mind-boggling to think of what Rogers had put on the line to follow through, as well. The man had a martyr complex, that was for sure. Plucking the phone from his grasp, Pepper tossed it away, it landing on the bed with a muted thump.

"So, what do you think?" she wondered, her palm resting against his cheek, stroking over the stubble on his jaw.

 _What will you do?_ was the question that hovered between them. Several interminable seconds passed as Tony ruminated. What could he do? In his darker moments, he had thought to pursue a hard avenue in regards to Barnes, bring him down and take down those who stood with him. What had stopped him, though, were several factors, one of which being that he would willingly damn some of his friends in the process. (Or, at least, the people he once considered friends.) He could condemn them all for actions that were not intentional, that had spiraled out of control long before any of them had entered the scene. And he, in turn, could be condemned for doing so, for destroying multiple lives even after they had inadvertently skewed his. A child, an innocent child, could have been made to suffer. No matter how outraged and broken he felt, he couldn't do that. Tony Stark had been that child, had lost his father due to something bigger and beyond his control. There was no way he would be the one to perpetuate such a cycle.

"Think I'm gonna...carry on," he whispered, shoulders slumping and deep breaths taken to combat the rising anxiety. A shuffling step, warmth washing over him, and then Pepper was resting her forehead against his. He looped his arms around her waist, the smooth, silky back of her dress caressing his palms as he held her. His anchor, his solid rock, kept him there, kept him safe in the winds and storms of his life, of his decisions. Clearing his throat, he snickered ruefully, "Can't guarantee staying calm, though."

A few more minutes passed in her embrace before Stark extracted himself from it. Striding over to the bed, he collected her phone again. Tapping his way through the security codes and swiping to the messages, he forwarded the sonogram picture to his personal, hackers-need-prayers-and-the-intelligence-of-forty-genuises-to-break-in server.

"JJ, insert this file into the system. Mark it under private and lock it down," he directed the AI, erasing the message from the device. The number, however, remained intact. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he murmured, "Security and protection is a must. Because God knows that kid is going to need it."

Tony snorted to himself. He'd thought he'd had to live up to ridiculous standards when he was younger. The littlest Rogers wasn't even born yet, and he knew the poor kid would end up being judged six ways to Sunday for the rest of his or her life, just for being the child of a national icon, a hero. Same song, different singer, he mused. The least he could do was make sure the news did not leak, not from him, anyway. Not before they were ready for it to be discovered publicly. He could do that much.

"Yes, it will," Pepper agreed, taking her phone back from him.

"Already done, sir," the AI confirmed aloud. It took a beat, and then JJ spoke up again. "And Colonel Rhodes is calling as well."

Spotting the denial that had surfaced in his expression, Pepper canted her head to the side and spoke over him.

"Accept the call, JJ." She glanced over, a tired grin playing over her lips as she watched his brow furrow in confusion. "You've got some catching up to do."

"I'll call him back later," he contradicted the command. Straightening his tie and smoothing his jacket down, he sallied up to her. "Made you a promise, didn't I? Late dinner, dancing, the whole nine yards?"

"That you did, but..." she trailed off, his lips capturing hers in a firm, soulful kiss. The kind that he gave to tell her what he couldn't, to show what he couldn't. The kind that affirmed her place in his heart, that affirmed her as his heart.

"Pep," he entreated her, his tone just shy of beseeching. "It's...it's what I need to do."

If he was going to carry on, he had to start right then, without wallowing or deeper self-pity. He craved her compliance, her aid, in the matter. In the morning, he could deal, iron out the details, get in touch with his therapist (yet another issue to add to his pile, even if he would disguise it in clever euphemisms and theoretical talking points). That night, he needed her. And so she nodded, taking his hand in hers and leading him out the bedroom door, one painstaking step at a time.

* * *

 **A/N:** And now the team knows, too. I know it's more pregnancy stuff, but I didn't want to relegate the team announcement to just a block of text. I will do my best to not focus solely on the events of the pregnancy from here on out, I promise. Not abandoning it at all; it's just one part of the greater whole!

Little bit shorter chapter this round, but I thought that this was a good stopping point. In the next, we'll get deeper into January, and we'll get to hear about Bucky and his transition to working for Fury, amongst other things. ;) Here's hoping the site won't be weird like it was last week, oh dear...

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references in the text ( _Keep Calm and Carry On, Hamilton: An American Musical_ —which I have been obsessed with for months now—etc.) Also, a little nod to the cartoon, _Avengers Assemble_ , with the thing about Falcon's mom making cookies for the team. For some reason, I really want that to be a thing in cinematic canon, but it's doubtful it will ever happen. Don't own that, either.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

 **EDIT:** In case anyone is curious about what went down after Holly and Steve rushed upstairs...I wrote a one-shot about it. ;) It is over on AO3, under the same username as here. It is entitled _Back on the Block_. Check it out if you're of the proper age, maturity, etc.


	15. Chapter 15

Back and forth. Back and forth. In the dull light of the window across the street, the figure within kept pacing. It was what he'd done for the last two hours, even when there was a greater need to sit and get out of sight. He'd been running since the day before, and he _clearly_ thought himself safe.

Bucky Barnes grimaced from his perch, level with him in the empty office building across the way. _Clearly_ , the guy was an idiot. If he thought that anything in the middle of a downtown area could be considered safe when a team of highly-trained operatives were on his tail, he was a few logs short of a fire. Or, the guy was certain that he had evaded them, and did not need to worry. Cocky son of a—

It did not matter why. What mattered was that Bucky, and the team he was working with, detained the man. Evidently, the fellow had been working to crack into SHIELD's new security systems, dredge up what information he could and use it to his advantage. More specifically, he'd been going after the newly-resurrected Nick Fury's personal files, and the director did not take kindly to that. He'd already gotten a few files off the main server, bones thrown to attract hackers and deviants, and he'd taken the bait. What he hadn't expected was a response team coming after him. Still, the bugger was fast enough and smart enough to disappear before the agents could lay a finger on him.

He wasn't smart enough, though, to elude the man who once bore the moniker of the Winter Soldier. He couldn't outrun or outfox someone who was trained to hunt down people just like him. And so Bucky waited, kneeling at the opened windowsill of the office building, sizing him up through his scope and watching the fellow track back and forth. Blue eyes squinted, and he scrubbed a hand over his brow. Just one good shot was all he needed, and then he could wash his hands of the whole thing.

Glancing to his left, he looked to the agent who had gone with him on the mission, the one who had clung like a shadow while the others fell back. A bland look was returned to him, laced with annoyance. Apparently, the guy was just as irritated as he was with the lack of clear opportunity being presented. Discreetly, the fellow's brown eyes cut to the window and away, an eyebrow raising minutely as his hand came up. Tapping first his chest and then inclining his head towards the glass once more, he waited until Barnes tipped his chin in agreement. At once, the tact-gear clad man had crawled away, the floor creaking a little as his weight crossed over. Shaking his head at the fellow's departure, Bucky resumed his deep breathing, sizing up the little hacker wannabe through his scope and keeping his rifle high up of his chest and finger to the side of the trigger. One minute went by, then two, and the runaway was still pacing, pacing, pacing. A cell phone came to hand, and he started chattering away, the look on his face a mixture of careworn relief. A few more minutes crawled by, and then suddenly the guy froze in his spot, the cell phone dropping away. Watching him jump and turn his back to the window, presenting him with a wide, still target, Bucky inhaled deeply and moved his finger. The trigger was squeezed fluidly, the distant ping of metal meeting glass lost in the bustle of the city below. At once, the runaway dropped, folding in on himself as he went. Looking down the barrel of the rifle, he spotted the agent he'd sent over coming through the door, his pistol at the ready. Tapping the fallen one with his boot, he soon hooked a thumb-up, signaling for Bucky to make his way over as well. Signaling success.

Blowing out another sharp breath, Bucky rose from his position, blood flowing back into his legs and head as he did so. Removing the specially-designed clip for his rifle, he examined it with interest. The sleeper darts within were incredibly handy; it would've made his job a lot easier in the past, he mused darkly. Before the turn of thoughts could warp into something more soul-crushing and sinister, he canted his head and pocketed the clip. There was the question of hauling the knocked-out runaway, and calling in for pick-up. Meeting by the back door of the building, the agent with him had already hot-wired a nearby car to serve the first purpose, leaving him with the second as they drove their cargo through the city streets. It took some time, and patience, but soon enough the rest of the team commissioned for the operation had gathered in a field well outside the city limits, the detainee secured tightly on a bench seat in the quinjet sent to take them away.

All this went into Barnes's field report, with the exception of his personal feelings regarding his new weaponry. It was the typical cycle of his life for the last three weeks: debriefing, mission work, detain, return, report. The seeming monotony on the surface was oddly comforting, in a way; he was serving a purpose after being at loose ends for so long, and while not ideal, the routine was something he could count on. Minus the interminable stretches of bored disinterest as one or another agent went on in the follow-up debriefings, how they had found the scuff of a boot or the precise coding that led them to completion. It wasn't like the guys were Poirot or something; they were field agents, and they had a job to do. Just finish it and move on. Details were fine and all, but listening to some of the blowhards was nearly enough to make Bucky want to tear out his own hair in frustration. Perhaps if he finished filing his personal report, he could avoid the meeting entirely. But no, an email had popped up on his laptop, Fury requesting his presence early the next morning to expound on the mission and there was no way to avoid it.

Sighing, he just hit the send button, pushing his personal computer off to the side on his bed. Upon taking residence on the helicarrier, he had been assigned personal quarters down the way from the other agents. He was unsure if it was for his benefit or for theirs, but he did welcome the privacy it provided, the twist of hall to his room at the end unoccupied by others. His tact gear had been shed, his weapons returned for cleaning and repair in the armory (his commissioned Glock had jammed during the chase, which pissed him off to no end), and he'd just completed showering prior to typing up his report. Another part of the cycle completed. Pushing back in his chair, he debated whether or not to grab some food down in the mess hall when a ringing chime came through the speakers. Spotting the little icon on the bar below, he could see he was being contacted for a video call. Sneaking a peek at the clock, he blew out a breath. It was about that time, he supposed, and he dragged his flesh finger across the track pad—his metal fingers never registered on it—to open it up.

"Agent Barnes, this is the Black Widow, requesting your weekly report," came a feminine voice, the camera flooded with light for a moment. When it settled, it revealed the glass paneling of a private office, the edges of a dark wood desk bleeding away. In the center of the frame was Natasha, fiery hair loose and waving away from her face, her pinked lips curling into a grin. She had folded her hands atop the desk, all business-like in her appearance. The glint in her baby blues, though, held something different.

Bucky arched a brow, smirking withal. "You missing me yet, Romanoff?"

A spike of aching shot through him, gone in an instant as his own words rebounded in him and replaced with humor as she playfully rolled her eyes at him.

"Oh, however am I to survive without the company of James Buchanan Barnes?" she asked facetiously, her deadpan expression and biting tone off-set by the dramatic press of her hand to her forehead. "Dear Lord, how I suffer so."

He snorted at that, his smirk losing its hard edge. "Somehow you'll have to manage. At least this week; I could only be there a grand total of maybe fifteen minutes before I'd have to be back for morning debriefing."

"What a shame," Natasha crooned in mock sympathy, a look of mild dejection seeming to crop up. A moment of quiet passed, in which both of them pondered the truth behind the teasing tones of their words. However, soon enough the redhead was shaking her head, as if to throw off the strange upsurge that had taken her over. Clapping her hands together, she pointed at him with both index fingers, circling them in a 'speed it up' gesture. "Progress report, go."

Noticing the way she was shifting slightly off-center, as if she were making room for another person, he cleared his throat.

"Is Steve going to be in on this, too?" Bucky wondered. It had only been three weeks since he joined up with Fury, but Steve was always present when he did his check-ins. The fact that he appeared to be nowhere in sight made him curious.

It was her turn to spike an eyebrow, the spark flooding her gaze again. "...This is the 'pre-progress report' report. Surely you knew?"

He blew out a breath, dropping his chin and letting his hair fall over his brow. It was growing out again, and would need a trim soon, but he wasn't concerned with it. No, he was occupied with the way her focus seemed to fly from his eye line to the strands, tracking the passing of his fingers through it as he tousled it out of the way. Her concentration fired something deep within him, and he tugged harder on his hair to distract himself from it.

Not that he totally resisted the flash of cheekiness that had accompanied it.

"So you did miss me," he retorted, unwitting charm coloring his expression. Rotating his left arm, as if to work out the kinks, he let his tone take on a serious lilt. "What do you want to know, Natasha?"

She shrugged, cupping a palm in the air. "I need the unfiltered report before Steve and you inevitably let the conversation deteriorate into gabbing about the good old days."

Groaning openly at her derision, he did as she requested, filling her on the last few days' events. Soon enough, Steve did come into the room, bustling forward so quickly that he nearly missed his chair entirely and almost tipped right onto the carpet floor. Pink tinged his cheeks at the clumsiness his haste had exacerbated (his equilibrium was rarely off nowadays, so when it did catch him, it was embarrassing), and so he instead apologized for his tardiness, jerking his hand towards the screen and requesting to be caught up. Between his report and Natasha's running commentary—her illumination, as she put it—he had gotten them up to speed.

"And things on-board are working out, too?" Steve wondered, as always, with Romanoff at once cutting her gaze to him, intensity lacing her irises. Bucky let the corner of his mouth curve; it was nice to know that at least someone else besides his therapist was concerned for his well-being. He was being a little unfair, knowing full well there were several people who had a vested interest in seeing him succeed, but he couldn't help the thought.

"So far, so good. The team I'm assigned to is a decent unit. Got a couple kids who are a bit green, but it's manageable." Granted, he realized that he was technically green himself, but Bucky Barnes had far more experience in the field than some of the recruits he'd come on board with. The last mission finally saw a few them getting their minds together, so that was positive, at least. "I've had to keep to the sidelines so far, lot of sitting and watching. Gotta wait for that media speculation to die down, or so Fury says." A wince decorated his face, showing just how little he liked the idea and its implications. "It's driving me up the wall, but, well, don't really need that firestorm right now."

The captain scratched at the back of his head, skewing the cropped strands.

"No, you don't," he reaffirmed, sharing a sideways glance with the Black Widow. "We've been trying to make some headway with Klaue's repossessed assets and files about the threats he made, but there's no documentation. Other than he was one of the buyers for some of the equipment out of Sokovia. He walked away with a few good pieces, but where they are, we still have no idea."

Bucky chewed the inside of his lip. "Have to keep an eye out, then. As always."

"Yes," Natasha concurred. With conversation at a standstill, with two brooding super soldiers on the line, it fell to her to break the silence that had accompanied the statement. "Keeping yourself occupied?"

Welcoming the distraction, Barnes crossed his arms over his chest and nodding. "Got another movie on the agenda for tonight. One thing I'll say for this modern age: film streaming is great." A fast, complicit look was shared with Rogers, and he shrugged once more. "Shorter one, gotta be up by oh-four hundred."

"Which one?" she wondered, stepping in just as Steve opened his mouth to say something. Quickly, he snapped his jaw shut, watching with plain interest as the two discussed the chosen movie for the night. Upon hearing the title, she chuckled under her breath. "Think you'll be able to get through it without getting confused?"

"Here's hoping," he responded, tilting his head to the right and flicking his fingers at the screen. Warmth invaded his tone, and thawed some of the ice in his eyes as he considered her again. Missing (or ignoring, the captain was unsure which after the fact) the blond eyebrow spiking at both of them, Bucky murmured, "Too bad you aren't here to be my guide."

Leaning back in her chair, Natasha slid a finger along her jacket pocket. "Well, you know which number to call in case you do."

"Good. Better keep the line free then," he recommended, smile becoming a touch more genuine. The blond eyebrow had been joined by its partner, nearly disappearing up into the hairline as the pair wrapped up their exchange. Pleasantries and farewells were passed, with Natasha choosing to take her leave at that moment. The fiery redhead sauntered off, strength and surety in her form as she moved. Eyes trailing after her, Steve lowered his brows, sneaking suspicion hot on the heels of his dawning understanding. How had he not seen, how had he been ignorant of what was going on under his nose? Sure, there was a thought of _maybe_ , but it seemed to have gone into _definitely_ territory.

Huh.

Lost in his own private reverie, it took a moment for Bucky to notice the steely, teasing stare his friend was giving him. Once he did see it, he narrowed his eyes at him.

"What?" Bucky asked, voice sharper than he intended it to be. Steve shook his head, expression seemingly innocent.

"I didn't say anything," he intoned judiciously, the slight impishness in his voice unmistakable beneath that. Off his friend's disbelieving eye roll, he snickered silently to himself. Letting the moment settle, he adopted a thoughtful look, his bright eyes flicking to him and to the door that his teammate had exited through. Slowly, he breathed through his nose, knowing he was about to broach an uneasy topic. "So, Natasha..."

At once, the ex-assassin's spine stiffened. "What about her?"

"Nothing," Steve replied, a hand raised in supplication. Placid assurance did not cover the sudden spring of worry in his eyes, the concern under the layers of teasing. "Just be careful."

Bucky was just short of scoffing at him, not sure how the insinuations made him feel.

"Okay."

At once, Steve's eyes froze a little more, the blue gaze frosty.

"I mean it," he reiterated. It was no flippant thing, no laughing matter, and though Bucky had been his best friend for years, it did not negate the caring he had for Natasha. Idly, he wondered if his torn feelings were how Hank felt about him pursuing Holly, back in the day. Letting his hands rest on the table, he absentmindedly twirled his wedding ring, blunting the hardness with honesty. "For both of you."

Spying the unwavering truth layered under the words, Bucky was taken aback. He had known that there was a danger in all the things unsaid, in all the things denied, but he hadn't thought that the clarity would be so obvious. Steve had both of them in his sights, knew the potential risks, and knew that they may not outweigh the rewards. If there were any rewards to be had in his person, he mused darkly. Romanoff was no fragile glass sculpture, but she wasn't infallible, either. If…whatever it was between them went badly, the repercussions would hit not only him and her, but others as well. Rogers waited, let him digest all that was unspoken in those few moments. Another minute passed, and then Bucky nodded somberly.

That, and he brought his metal hand up, tilting it and giving him a mocking salute.

"Yes, sir."

The captain canted his head to the side, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "Alright. Now say it again, with less attitude."

The ex-assassin snorted, jabbing a finger at the screen. "Don't use me to practice your father routine."

Steve gave him a little half-grin, his irises no longer as icy. "I gotta get the time in somehow."

The conversation wound down from there, with promises to check in the next week, as per the agreement. The two old friends wished each other a fond farewell, and Steve sat back in his seat as the screen went dark. The grin on his lips curved again, his mind processing all that he had been told, all that he had seen in Bucky. It was a far cry from those early days, the haunted look in his eyes diminished enough to let his genuine light shine through. Little by little, he was gaining a life, gaining his life, and it was so good to see less suffering and heartache in his person. Blue eyes cut to the left, to the seat that had been vacated by his teammate, and the grin turned into a smirk. Less suffering and heartache for them all, it seemed. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he closed out the computer before him, shaking his head.

"He always did prefer redheads," Steve mused quietly as he closed the laptop, rising from his seat and preparing to go home.

 **xXxXxXx**

The last Saturday in January was cold, bitterly so. It would have been an ideal day for just wrapping oneself up in a blanket, hunkering down in bed, and not leaving the nest except to forage and to use the facilities. However, that was not on the docket for Holly Rogers. For once, she would be the one leaving the house, called away for a mission of her own. Granted, it wasn't as if she'd suddenly been asked to lead a group of enhanced individuals into battle. No, she had made a promise to meet up with her friend, Sarah, in New York City. With her now engaged and Holly being selected as the matron of honor, they had a few things to go over and discuss. As well as that, she had a wedding dress to shop for, and she had chosen that weekend for it. She was having a little vacation away from D.C., her mother joining her, and Holly invited for the ride. Now that her best friend was actually within an easy driving distance, she did not wish to pass the opportunity up.

Steve had expressed his concerns prior to the date, ones that were valid—his position in the world affecting her, the higher risk of her being a target now that she was visibly pregnant and married to him, and his inability to go with and protect her. Understanding his unease, she nevertheless was determined to go. She was no princess that would just let herself be locked in a tower, unable to live life. Certainly, she admired and craved safety, but just because she had taken his name didn't mean she was going to give up acting like a regular person. Her self-defense bouts may have been benched for the time being, but she remembered enough of the routines that she knew she could protect herself if she had to. And, Holly had told him with a wide smile, who said that she would go alone?

That morning, she indeed was not alone as she motored down the highway, her Buick crunching over the salt and dirt on the tar. After she'd dressed for the morning, a black Jeep had rolled up the drive, parking off to the side of the garage, the driver swinging out of her vehicle. Stumbling by, the blue-haired companion of her choice waved with her free hand to the captain, drinking deeply from her travel mug of coffee and throwing a large duffel bag into the backseat. Not alone, not at all; she had Kay coming with, a trained agent and friend who could watch out for her easily. Taking her choice in stride (he was just grateful she hadn't insisted on going off on her own, to be honest), he kissed her farewell, bidding her go once she promised to call and let him know she'd arrived in the city safely.

For several long minutes, the two women did not speak, instead listening to the CD that had been placed in the player and letting the music wash over them. With the character of Eliza singing about falling in love with Hamilton (she knew she would get obsessed with soundtrack when she first heard it, she had just _known_ it would happen), Holly took a sip of her water, her thumb tapping at the steering wheel.

"We should go over the plan again," she piped up, drawing Kay out of her reverie in the passenger seat. Shrugging a shoulder, she reached over and turned the music down enough so as to not inhibit the conversation. "I mean, not that it's like planning D-Day or something, but it wouldn't hurt to make sure we have this locked down."

Amused by the reference she had made—for all the modern pop culture she would inflict on her husband, he would get his own back in little ways, as well—Kay nodded at her request.

"Suppose we should. Mainly I'll just blend when you're trying to go incognito, follow discreetly and step in where I'm needed," she outlined, unbuckling her seat-belt. Reaching into the back, she unzipped her bag, combing through the myriad of items within while Holly groaned at the proximity of the agent's butt to her face as she did so. Snorting, she crowed with satisfaction as she found what she was looking for. Sliding back into her seat, she dumped the item into Holly's lap and giggled. When the other woman glanced down, looked at the fan of fake, dark hair spreading over her thirteen-week belly and legs, she rolled her eyes. Picking it up between her forefinger and thumb, she tossed it back at the agent, laughing a little as she caught the wig deftly. All part of the disguise that would be assembled. Holding up her free hand, Kay continued, "Trust me, I won't infringe on the girls' weekend."

The light grin on Holly's lips faded somewhat,

"It's not...okay, I don't think you're infringing," she tried to clarify. Honestly, she didn't think that at all; she rather liked Kay, once they got past the prickliness and distrust of the early days. If Kay had thought that she was horning in on her life, she would set the record straight. "It's just...a lot of factors of this weekend are a little uncomfortable, that's all. And it's not all about the potential danger. Big part of it, but not all."

Tossing the wig over her shoulder towards her bag, Kay smirked slightly. "Still haven't adjusted to the celebrity factor?"

The marked rise of distaste in Holly's face almost made her laugh outright, but she held back on it while she answered.

"Frankly, I don't think I ever will," she replied truthfully. The position Steve held was one of prestige and honor, earned after dogged determination and hard work, even if it had been started as a source of Allied propaganda. For seventy years, he was revered for his talents and his duties by the world over. The notoriety of his position had followed him even out of the ice, and would continue to follow him so long as he carried the shield. The attention he got out in public, when he was openly recognized, still jarred, would continue to jar a person who had known nothing but obscurity until being thrown into the world of heroes. Holly exhaled softly. "I can accept it as a matter of course of being married to Captain America, but it doesn't mean I bask in the attention. Too many people ask too many weird questions, about things that don't concern them."

Comprehending the seriousness of the proclamation, Kay nodded silently, raking a hand through her loose hair. Her mind wandered to her own relationship, to her affection for Sam, drawing the parallels that could be made, the differences that separated them from the very public couple her friend was part of. While she was not ignorant of the glances and whispers that had started to follow her, the knowing looks given to her by his fellow teammates, Kay Szymik was still an unknown entity to the wider world, just another face in the sea of spies and workers for SHIELD. Taking a look out the window again, she let a facetious smile grow.

"Anonymity, it's a good way to go," she murmured, all at once glad that Sam had agreed to her condition of keeping everything to themselves. Hiding, he'd called it recently, and that memory of the flash of disheartened placidity in his eyes soured it, but she refused to regret it. It was still just them, to themselves, and that was what mattered. Holly flicked her gaze off the road to her for a second or two, guessing at her line of thought and shaking her head.

"When you have it. Which I enjoyed for the, hmm, month or so we had it. This was back when Steve and I were just friends, mind you," she grumbled, trying to keep the blunt edge from her voice but failing. She could see the tiny sliver of amusement that Kay had in her expression had slid away, and she felt bad for being the one to crush it. It wasn't intentional, not totally. However, she wasn't about to mince words on the matter; the denial would only last for so long, after all. Attempting to soften her previous statement and return the mood to something more pleasant, she forced a laugh and said, "Again, I accept it, but it can be tough to deal with when all you want to do is buy your pads in peace and someone decides they absolutely need to ask about how often Captain Rogers raises 'Old Glory' with you."

Though a seasoned agent, Kay's eyebrows nearly hit her hairline at that pronouncement.

"Seriously?"

Holly inclined her head solemnly, a knowing glint in her gaze.

"I have never switched check-out lanes faster in my life. Got a free package of peanut butter cups and a formal apology from management when they learned what happened and kicked the dude out, though." Lifting a shoulder again, she maneuvered the car to pass an Oldsmobile that was going at least fifteen miles under the speed limit. Tipping her chin up, she theorized, "Guess I gotta get into the ball cap and glasses look for the weekend, and make myself look like a shiftless hobo between shops."

Knowing all too well Holly's opinions about the team's propensity for that civilian look (and truthfully sharing it herself), the agent smiled wide. Canting her head, she took a moment to consider why it was used fairly consistently before she aired her suppositions aloud.

"It's the go-to because it works. It's shocking how unobservant people can be when they choose," she observed, both women snorting at that fact. For a minute or two, silence descended, and then Kay's brow quirked again. "You took a bribe from a grocery store?"

The other woman held up a single finger, in a clear, 'now see here' gesture.

"Recall what I was buying, and you'll understand why I was able to take it." Sidelong glances were shared and she scoffed, "They were lucky I wasn't walking out with the dude impaled on a pike, then."

A spark of curiosity flooded the blue-haired woman, and she narrowed in on the driver.

"Did you tell the captain?" she inquired, feeling a little evil for prodding the potential beast that lay behind the confession. However, she was surprised to see the brunette struggle to hold back a beam.

"Yeah. Considering it happened very early in the relationship, and we hadn't progressed to that point, he'd gone beet red when I described it to him. From both awkwardness and anger."

The agent tsked in mock sympathy. "Poor guy."

A glance was directed at her, and a hand flapped superfluously through the air. "He got over it eventually."

A wicked grin bloomed on Kay's lips, and her eyebrows arched slightly. "Once you figured out the answer to the question?"

"Shut up," Holly retorted, sticking her tongue out at her companion. Kay's answering chuckles were lost as she turned up the volume on the radio, the musical compilation that she was given pumping through the speakers. Within a few hours (and after a fueling stop, because the driver was not about to pay city prices for gas; they were outrageous, in Holly's opinion) they had passed over the invisible edge, the magical cross from highway and country to bright, blaring city streets. Weaving through the interminable traffic, Kay found that the car was being directed towards the Avengers Tower. A quizzical, worried look was shot from her to her friend, with Holly's return one stoically concerned. The agent did not all the gritty details of the fallout between Tony Stark and the remainder of the team, but she'd heard an abridged version from Sam. Not that she couldn't have handled the truth, but because it was still too fresh, still hurt to discuss, even for him. As such, she did know that the captain in particular was essentially banished from the billionaire's presence. It stood to reason to think that the captain's wife would endure similar treatment due to association. Her compatriot confirmed her worry when she whispered that if her personal access codes were denied, she had a hotel number on standby in her phone. Pulling up to the underground garage entrance, Kay held her breath as the other woman tapped in her digits, fingers crossed as they processed. A collective sigh of relief went around when the application on her phone lit up green, the voice of the smooth AI used by the Avengers welcoming them to the building (the fact that he had greeted Kay by name as well was mind-boggling, but she shook off her surprise relatively quickly). The plan was to get in and parked on the lower levels, go upstairs to their quarters and drop off their overnight bags, allow the agent to disguise herself, and then go out again. The endeavor with the out-of-town friends was projected to last the day, so the only time they would spend in the Tower would be the hours that they slept. Holly was determined to merely sleep and go as early as possible the next morning, so they wouldn't be a nuisance. So they wouldn't make so much as a blip on Stark's radar, the agent translated that as, but she did not correct it. That part of the plan went off without a hitch, even with the brunette stalling by an empty parking spot in the private area of the garage by the elevators. Raising an eyebrow, she stopped besides her, her mouth twisting as she saw the defaced shield insignia on the pavement, remover having buffed through the paint. A hard, angry cut of it slashed through diagonally, and was faded at the edges. It had been some time since the removal attempt, but it had not been fixed, either. Shaking her head, Holly swallowed hard and pivoted purposefully towards the elevator, paying it no more mind. Kay was only steps behind her.

Once in the private apartments upstairs, Kay assembled her clothes, trading out her clean jeans for some dirtied and ripped ones, a pair of red leggings peeking through. A heavy sweatshirt was donned, a green parka shrugged on after. False glasses perched on her nose, a pair that looked like the fake, plastic frames but in fact had a digital hook-up to SHIELD and connected wirelessly to a commissioned earpiece. The dull black wig was tugged on once her blue tresses were drawn up and secured, fingers combing through it to look more natural. Earmuffs and a beanie completed the ensemble, a decoy bag perched on her hip. She looked like a college student, or so Holly had told her when they met in the elevator nearly half an hour later. Just as she had designed it to be; if there were any attempting terrorists out there, they wouldn't suspect someone who looked like she'd gotten lost on her way to courses at NYU to be a bodyguard. Chipping at her nail polish to add to the look, she instructed Holly to exit the building twelve minutes after she did, to give her a head start and to lend credence to the ruse they were constructing. With any luck, she would not be noticed by the crowds, and would blend in seamlessly as the other woman went about her day. Complying, Holly stared at her phone, counting down the minutes and doing random Internet searches to pass the time. Soon enough, she was out on the street, no sign of a green parka anywhere. Walking down the block, she stepped up to the first cab she could find, being whisked away through the streets of Manhattan.

Deposited outside a small cafe down the street from the bridal shop, Holly pulled out her phone, tapping out a quick text to alert her friend to her arrival, trying to get it finished and her hands back into gloves as swiftly as possibly. Across the street, she caught the flicker of green as it escaped from a cab, the voice lost in the people passing by, the reassurance making her breathe a little easier. The vibration of the answering text pulled her attention, but responding was forgotten when a bright, happy tone shouted to her. Whipping her gaze back up, she smiled broadly as the petite whirlwind of blonde curls dodged between passersby, running up to her and practically jumping into her embrace.

"Holy crap, it's been ages," Sarah Collins breathed, hugging her as tightly as she could. Holly reciprocated as much as possible, given the extension of her belly and the pressure.

"Too true, Sare," she told her, squeezing once before letting go. Another set of arms moved around her then, a friendly greeting on the lips of Jane, Sarah's mother. The older woman patted her bleach-blonde hair, wishing her hello fondly. Though it was rare for the two to be in company, Holly didn't have any problems with Mrs. Collins. In fact, it helped her make sense of the balls-busting and the cat-killing curiosity that her friend had; Jane was all that and more, experience coloring it all and enveloping it in a five-foot-three package. The mother and daughter had come up the day before, flying it to see a few of the sights before devoting their time to poke around some of the shops there. Controls were turned over for the day, and she intended to enjoy the ride with the two ladies.

After the third store, and the fourth dress, though, Holly's eyes were starting to burn. (And her stomach was growling, but hunger had become something like second nature to her, anyway.) She had never been gladder to have skipped that step in regards to her own wedding. Online shopping was a godsend, in her opinion. And speaking of her opinion, Sarah had turned on the pedestal in front of the mirrors, asking for hers on the mermaid gown she was strapped into.

"What do you think?" she asked, palms running up and down over the see-through insets over her stomach. Holly's brow furrowed, and she shared a glance with Sarah's mom. The older woman looked pained, her polite smile worn off and twisting into a frown. Catching the exchange, the younger blonde sighed. "I know, I know. I was just trying something new, but I don't think this is it. My dance competition costumes have more material than this dress."

Aside from the sheer material of the corset, there were a couple of panels of the same on the skirt, and the scooped neckline dipped dangerously low. Letting her expression become deadpan, Holly witnessed the lightning-wink her best friend had shot her, informing her that she knew exactly what she was getting into in trying on the dress.

"Oh, thank God," her mother exclaimed, a hand placed over her heart in a mocking, overjoyed manner. Her hazel gaze sparkled as she continued, "I think your grandmother would have a stroke if you picked that one."

"I didn't say I didn't like it, Mom..." she trailed off, hands lifting in a placating manner as Jane's jaw dropped. At once, she reassured her, "Just kidding. This is not what I'm looking for."

The attendant waiting on them held out her hand, helping her off the pedestal and preparing to guide her back to the dressing room. Sarah was biting her lip by that point, a bit of disappointment on her features; she didn't want to leave another store empty-handed. Watching as her green gaze strayed over one of the model dresses set up in the alcove, Holly cupped a hand in the air.

"Well, you could always try the ball gown again," she suggested, catching the flare of excitement spike under her friend's doubt.

"I don't know, it's so...princess-y, and I ain't never been a princess," Sarah responded, putting on an exaggerated form of her accent and making the attendant wince slightly.

"Says the woman who wears tulle and sparkling sequins while pirouetting gracefully," Holly jested, knowing full well what her friend was like. A dancer, yes, and graceful, but she also could fire a rifle better than anyone she knew and could get elbow-deep in gutting a deer carcass. Still, it was obvious how much fun she'd had in the previous dress she'd tried on purely on a whim, and she couldn't see the harm in it. "C'mon, you liked it, we liked it, give it another shot."

Jane nodded in commiseration, and Sarah exhaled sharply, as though entirely put upon. Shuffling out of sight, the petite blonde had given Holly the chance to sneak into her purse and take out the granola bars she'd sneaked in with her. In between the other salespeople and attendants walking in and out, she would snack on them as discreetly as possible, covertly handing off a piece to a grateful Mrs. Collins. Shifting of material and Sarah's tap-tap of borrowed heels came from around the corner, the last of the bar shoved into her mouth and ingested quickly. The ball gown had returned, the beaded bodice shining in the lights around the room. The pattern of the beads trailed onto the skirt, the satin gleaming around her hips and legs as she turned. To add to the effect, the attendant had pinned a veil into her hair, her blonde curls encompassed by the sheer material. It trailed down her back, adding to the short train as it swirled around her. Jane's eyes rivaled the dress in with the glitter in her irises, the rising, happy water in them showing just how pleased she was to see her daughter in something so gorgeous. To see how gorgeous she was in it. Deftly, tissues were passed around, a few pressed into Holly's palms as well.

"Aaron's gonna cry, I bet," Jane said, a chuckle in the back of her throat as she cleared away her tears. Sarah's own eyes were welling up a little, and she dipped her chin.

"No...do you think?" she wondered, lifting her gaze to meet Holly's in the reflective surface. At once, her smile broadened, and she nodded.

"I'm already tearing up, so you know it's good," Holly said, pointedly wiping away the pooling tears in her eyes, which she knew she couldn't blame on hormones entirely. Her best friend, her second sister in a lot of ways, looked so beautiful. She would definitely knock Aaron's socks off with that dress, and own her wedding day in it. So it was with pleasure (and not a little bit of relief) that Sarah conceded that she had found the right gown, finally, and would place an order for one right away.

Though splurging a bit on the wedding dress itself, Sarah had no intention of subjecting her bridal party to the same expensive standard. Using her phone, she showed Holly the type of gown she wanted for them all—blush, floor length, and thankfully available at a chain bridal store. One of which happened to be several blocks over, and it was just her luck that Sarah had scheduled an appointment there as well. Suddenly strong-armed into her own fitting by two very crafty and devious Virginian women, Holly found herself praying for strength to get through it. It was done with minimal fuss (because she was definitely not going to show herself off to the majority of the store while struggling with a size too small, thank you very much), with some good advice given by the attendant working with them. Since the wedding was scheduled for the end of August, she ordered up two sizes from her typical one, knowing she could always take the dress in, if needed. The delivery would be out over the next few weeks, and she knew she would have to type a memo into her phone so she could remember to get it herself.

Soon enough, Holly had proclaimed herself to be starving, and the two Collins women chuckled, detouring at once for a small diner down the street. Apologizing for her rudeness and hunger, Mrs. Collins brushed it off, assuring her that carrying a human tended to do that to a person. Sarah had only shrugged in agreement, not batting an eyelash once even as the meal and the side order for her came, and she didn't so much as eat as inhale them. Not that it was so different from her normal eating habits, anyway, the blonde joked; Holly snickered, knowing full well that Sarah very often did the same, too. Conversation turned to work and family, with Jane asking after Holly's run with pregnancy and whether she'd chosen to take up any birthing classes or not. Sarah wondered about life at the base, about her treatment in her department and the people she worked with. In turn, Holly was curious about the progress being made for Sarah to start her own studio, and was pleased to note that she was looking into spaces for rental over the next month or two, supplementing her time with more competition and adult classes. Roughly partway through the meal, Jane had excused herself to the bathroom, leaving the two friends alone for the first time.

"Thank you for coming out," Sarah mumbled around her bite of food, Holly chuckling as she drank quickly to clear her mouth.

"Thanks for being so accommodating," the brunette replied, tipping her head towards the windows of the diner, to the street and city just outside the doors. "New York is a drive."

The other young woman huffed, as though it were hardly anything to comment on. Her green gaze, though, glimmered with good humor.

"My mama and I have been planning on coming to the Big Apple since September. This side-trip just happens to be to your benefit," she told her, affecting an airy tone. The two friends grinned at one another, and Sarah reached over, slinging her arm companionably around her shoulders. With sincerity, she went on, "I have been missing my bestie lately."

"Yeah, I can imagine," was the immediate, sardonic retort, but the humor faded as Holly thought about it more. "Really, I have been, too. It's been...it's been tough, over the last couple of months."

Letting her fork rest upon her plate, she dropped one hand to the swell of her belly, and a thumb traced along the scar above her eyebrow. Sarah let out a slow breath. Though it had been some time since they'd seen one another in person, she did keep in touch with Holly, and while details were never fully given (it was better in the long run, if she knew less about the situations at hand), she was intelligent enough to understand there had been more going on than could be said. There were difficulties with friends, with the team, and of course there was the baby to consider as well. Did something else happen in the short time between their last ranting session and that day?

Carefully, she inquired, "More with Steve, or...?"

The grin Holly gave in answer was bitter at best, and she canted her head to the side.

"Just the world we live in, among other things."

Unsure of what she could really say to that, Sarah patted her shoulder. Deciding after a few moments of silence that ballsy confidence and a show of faith was needed, she did that.

"You got this," she announced, knowing the depths of her friend's strength and reminding her of it. "You keep your head and not worry so much, and you'll be alright."

Holly snorted; _that_ old refrain, again. Still, she smirked. "Easier said than done."

"Easier done than said, if you actually follow the advice for once," Sarah riposted, curls bouncing as she emphatically shook her head. Pulling her arm away, she brought up her forefinger, poking it directly in the center of Holly's forehead. "Use this, and this,"—the finger moved down and motioned above where her heart was, before lowering again and jabbing towards the baby bump her friend sported—"and keep an eye out for this. Seems simple enough."

A decisive jerk of the head, and the young lady was satisfied with her reasoning, taking up her fork again and shoveling in a big helping of potatoes. The brunette stared at her for a long moment, something akin to disbelieving laughter pushed out her nose before she followed her friend's example.

"Theory, practice, look it up," she muttered out the side of her mouth. Chewing occupied them both for the moment, and then she bumped shoulders with her, smiling genuinely. "Thanks."

"Anytime," was the reply. Glancing up, they both noticed Jane finally making her way back to the table, and Sarah deliberately changed the subject. "Now tell me: you got names picked out? Because let me just say, Sarah is a fabulous choice. Boy or girl, doesn't matter."

The sun had fully set by the time they'd all finished dinner, but the city remained bright and bustling even in the freezing cold. After bidding Sarah and her mother farewell—after promising to meet them for breakfast before she would head back home—Holly wound her way through the crowds, eyes sweeping tiredly left to right. Wrapping up tightly in her scarf and coat, she buried her hands into her pockets, keeping her head down and her fingers tight around her canister of pepper spray. Nothing about the walk seemed untoward, but she had to remain watchful; after all, it wasn't like she could forget that she wasn't a target, in some circles. Proceeding up the block, she nearly jumped when the parka-encased arm slipped through hers, but when she spotted the flick of false black hair and the bright, almond-shaped eyes under square-frame glasses, she relaxed a little. Kay, as promised, was right there with her, having followed on her heels. Her unobtrusive vigilance had yielded very little, but the disheveled nature of her appearance when she returned (salt and dirty snow on parts of her coat, the wig askew under the knit cap) made her start to pick up the pace. At Kay's prompting, Holly stepped up to the curb, taking the first free cab and directing it back to the Avengers Tower. In actuality, she told the driver to drop the two women down the block, the agent giving a concurring nod. At once, the disguised woman chattered to Holly about a nonexistent work day, and the latest gossip about a couple of celebrities that neither of them actually cared about. Following her lead, she would hum or crow in answer to her words, pressing hard against the opposite door in case she would need to make a hasty escape. Within minutes, they were dropped off, fare handed over and the cold air washing over her yet again. Up the block, in the looming shadow of the Tower, the pair of women pushed through the people milling, sidestepping until they could make their way around to the back entrance. Security codes and clearances went through, JJ greeting each of them by name as they slipped inside the building. Once it latched into place and they crossed the main floor (the lights inside at half power due to it being off-hours), Holly started to feel the jump of nerves lessen. But only just.

They were halfway up the building, changing elevators, when she finally got up the gumption to inquire about the state of her friend and protector's person had gotten to.

"Are you alright? Was it bad?" she asked quietly, mindful of JJ's silent presence and knowing that what she said could be drawn upon later. Pitching her voice lower still, she let her mind embrace the possibilities as she pressed, "Was it...?"

Unzipping her coat and wiping at a streak of mud and salt with the edge of it, Kay flashed her a tight smile.

"'Mfine. It was a mugging gone wrong," she explained, wrenching both the wig and hat off at once. Tucking both away into her scuffed bag, she shrugged. Dusting off a fist playfully, she added, "Gone wrong for the muggers, at least."

Holly's eyebrows rose. It wasn't surprising that Kay had gotten the edge; she was an Inhuman, after all, and had ten times the strength of the burliest guys out there. Not bad for the slight girl with blue hair, her posture seemed to indicate.

Clearing her throat, Holly needed clarification. "That was all? Nothing more than that?"

The surfacing mirth in Kay's dark eyes dissipated a little, her head canting to the left.

"Well, I question their intelligence for trying their hand on someone on a well-lit street." It was a bold move, to be sure, and one that made her pause. Even if she was alone, she wasn't exactly an easy target. Thinking back to the sloppy approach, the fast snagging of her bag, and the smash of their heads when she pushed the two fellows together and letting them drop to the sidewalk, she emphatically had some questions of her own. To do so, she would need to pull a string or two, which she was willing to do. "I'm definitely going to look into some records, now that the cops have been involved and my statement was filed."

Absorbing the fact that it had progressed to Kay calling in for an arrest and making a statement to the police, Holly closed her eyes, leaning back against the cool wall of the elevator. Hopefully, it really was just two dumb muggers trying their luck on the wrong woman, but the queasiness did not subside until she had set foot on the captain's floor. They had agreed to check up with one another before heading off to bed, with Kay proceeding downstairs to the guest apartments. Once inside, Holly armed the alarms for the quarters, exchanging her thawing clothing for the sweats and t-shirt she had packed for the night. Lying on the bed, she tapped out a message to her husband, letting him know of her safety and bidding him to have a good night, no matter where he was. His return one was of similar sentiment, and she grinned to herself. In the quiet, she stretched out on the wide mattress, attending to the sounds of her own breathing, to the whisper-soft current of air coming through the vents...

The chiming at the door that was never, ever used. They had been installed after the knocking policy had been reinstated, but generally, it hadn't been used. A couple loud bangs on the door, and JJ supplying an identification was enough. The bell was formal, polite. And downright suspicious. Screwing up her brow, she stared into thin air, as though the AI would look down upon her and ask her what was wrong. No, a vocal prompt would be necessary.

"JJ, who's ringing?" The silence that followed the question was unnerving, and Holly inhaled shakily. "JJ?"

The AI remained unresponsive, the silence punctuated by yet another bell ring. Light tapping came after that, more insistent as she hesitated. Swallowing, she rose up from the bed. Rational thought, she had to think rationally about what was happening. JJ wasn't answering. The only time the AI would not at least affirm its presence was if it was commanded to privacy, muted, or offline. She had not imposed any of those commands upon it, which meant that the system itself had been over-ridden. Understanding that, her heart still hammered in her chest as she scooped up her collapsible bat, thumb poised over the extender button. The bell rang once more, and she breathed out harshly.

"Damn it," she muttered, reaching a likely conclusion as she picked her way down the hall. And the conclusion she was coming to was making her stomach churn in nervousness. Kay was doing research, Steve was miles away, Sarah had absolutely no way to access the Tower, and nobody else knew she was there.

Except for the security system, that linked into the expansive AI, who answered and obeyed one person above them all.

 _'Please don't be who I think it is,'_ she was pleading inwardly, not wanting a confrontation. Not on her own, not on the only night she was in the Tower. _'Please let it be a lost intern or something.'_

As she wound through the living room and up the entry hall, the knot of dread twisted. Nearly on tiptoe, she sneaked up to the door, attempting to peer through the peephole. The little fish-eye glass revealed a bowed out figure, his features distorted as he tucked his hands into his pockets. She froze, uncertain of whether she should try her chances and run back to her room, or greet the man on the other side.

"I know you're in there," he called out after several beats of further silence. Taken aback, she let her eyebrows quirk. As if sensing her question, the fellow spoke up again. "I can see the shadow of your feet from under the door."

"Son of a..." she grumbled under her breath. She was not in the right frame of mind to do that, but it seemed it would happen, one way or another. Still holding the handle of the bat loosely, she tapped through the codes. The door unlocked with a heavy clicked, and after drawing in a calming breath, she swept it open. Attempting a neutral expression (going too far either way on the emotional spectrum could get her into trouble), she murmured, "Hi, Tony."

Her first impression of the billionaire was how utterly exhausted he looked. It was like the weight of the world had been dropped onto his shoulders, pushed down until he was flattened, and then someone asked him to hold onto a six hundred-pound barbell on top of it. The lines in his face had worn deeper, and the brown eyes were lackluster. Impeccably groomed as he was, and dressed cleanly—it had to have been a lab day, given how he was sporting the layered tee and the jeans—he seemed so tired. It was no less than what Holly was expecting of Tony Stark, after the previous month's fallout. His gaze ran along her as well, stalling when he hit her expanding waistline and widening a bit. The stillness after her greeting ran on, the seconds passing almost painfully as they looked at one another, and then anywhere else.

"Hello," Tony finally responded, jerking his head as if the silence had stung him. Swallowing, Holly let the hand holding her bat crook behind her, keeping it hidden. What on Earth was Tony doing there? Well, of course he owned the building, and could go where he pleased, but why was he seeking her out?

"Can I..." she tried, clearing her throat to knock out the strain. "Can I help you with something?"

He shook his head, scratching at the back of his neck. "Just wanted to check in, see if everything is alright."

Was that all? She didn't buy it, and to be honest, he really didn't seem to be committed to selling it. Still, if he chose to pursue that route, that was his choice. And it seemed rude to stall longer, staring instead of answering.

"Can't complain," she confessed, lifting a shoulder. A corner of her mouth quirked, and she tried to joke, "I thought you would have kicked me out when you realized I was here."

The toe of his shoe was evidently quite fascinating, as he did not bother to look up at her or even reciprocate with a jest or quip of his own. His hand fell to his side, the fingers curling and uncurling languidly.

"I thought about it," he almost whispered, his jaw quirking. Holly blinked, mouth going dry in an instant.

"Oh." The blunt honesty had smacked her in the face, and the wave of sorrow and bitterness poured over her. A sickening spike of cold was followed by a flush of heat in her, and the hand holding the doorknob went to rest at the swell of her belly. Protection, the primitive part of her brain was labeling the action; she was shielding her unborn child from the spring of animosity she was being shown. It had been a mistake, she mused, a huge mistake to take refuge in the Tower, even if it was only for the night. It had been a gamble, going there, and it was one that apparently would not pay off. Taking a physical step back, Holly could only blurt, "Well, if you don't want me around, I can go, book a hotel."

At once, Tony's head snapped up, his dark eyes meet hers fully.

"Don't," he stilled her offer. An exasperated sigh floated out of him then, and he gestured superfluously at her. "I'm not going to throw a pregnant woman out on her ear because of...things."

The palm perched upon her belly pressed a little harder into the fabric of her shirt. Only for the baby's sake would she be tolerated; while not a declared enemy, she knew for a fact that it would be too much for Stark to consider her a friend. In his mind, she surmised, she amounted to a betrayer, siding with the people who had wrought so much pain in his recent past. And distant past by proxy, as well. It was too bad, for she actually did like Tony. For all his idiosyncrasies, for all his faults, he wasn't a bad man, and his life had been a rollercoaster from one event to the next, from childhood, basically.

As she had stated at the time, the entire situation was just a suckfest from beginning to end. And she had no idea how to help fix it, other than to remain polite, honest, and just try to not step on any toes. A brief second passed in which she wished Pepper were there; building a bridge with her would have been less stilted, perhaps.

"Well, thanks for that," she replied, doing her best to keep her tone pleasant. The slight edge beneath her words was heard, if his minute flinch were anything to go by. Tipping her head towards the interior of the quarters, she tried again. "Do you want to come in, have some coffee or something?"

Holly took another half-step in, that time angling herself in such a way that would it would be seen as an invitation. A polite invitation between friendly acquaintances, as it was meant to be. Tony shook his head in denial, straightening his spine.

"Thanks, but I've already downed espresso in prep for tonight. Wrapping up a couple projects," he told her, his rejection swift and mildly given. A flicker of warmth rose in his irises, but it fell just as quickly. "I just wanted to stop by, and well...see how you were."

See how she really was faring, or see the truth of her condition for himself, to make sure he was not being told lies? It was something she could not help but wonder. Maybe it was a little bit of both. Either way, she found herself nodding, the gesture as reassuring and kind as it could be.

"I'm fine, Tony." Upon seeing the lack of duplicity in her face, in her eyes, the billionaire inclined his chin, taking a step back himself.

"Good. You need anything, just forward your requests through JJ, it'll get taken care of," he instructed, his tone level and matter-of-fact. The finality of the statement settled on them both, and he pivoted on his heel to go. He occupied himself with his handheld, tapping it and exhaling softly.

As he walked away, Holly couldn't help but think that how far he still had to travel. Though willing to actually speak to her face-to-face, it wasn't done with the ease and spirited nature of the past, she could comprehend that much. Stark always had a crack, a joke, a lilting verbosity that could not be ignored. It was missing, or suppressed, in her presence, all stiffness and edges that made her sadder still. She didn't want that for Tony, didn't want him to be so ill at ease with them, and with his choices. She didn't want that for any of them, for the friendships that had been strained and for the team that had been weighted down. Watching the barest slump of his shoulders as he crossed to the elevator, the spiking of his hair as a weary hand passed over it, she sighed.

Unable to stop herself, Holly called out to him.

"Tony?" Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as he paused. As he slowly turned back towards her, she felt her heart beat faster, language garbled in her mind as she struggled to think of something to say. Forcing her brain to squash the doubts and fears, the worries and the torments, simple truth was able to break free. Lifting her fingers, she waggled them in farewell. "Good night. Good luck."

Holly did not expect an answer from Stark; indeed, she had thought he would only give her a jerking nod and stumble out of there. To her surprise, she watched as the smallest smirk decorated his lips, and his hand came up to wave back at her in a lazy salute.

"Thanks, kiddo," he muttered, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing his handheld. A few taps with his forefinger and then she heard JJ's voice calling out to her from just inside her door. Startled by the reinstated access, Holly looked back towards the AI's calling, telling it that she would be back in shortly. Turning out to the hall again, she witnessed the closing of the elevator doors, the billionaire whisked away and leaving her to her own devices again.

Progress, she told herself as she let her own door swing shut and she locked up for the night. It was progress, and more than she could have hoped for.

* * *

 **A/N:** Chapter Fifteen, or as it could be alternately titled, "The OC Cavalcade/The One With Some Feelings." :-P

A lot going on in this chapter, I know, but feel free to discuss. Work has been kicking my butt this week, but no worries, I've got this!

Even from far away, things are moving forward with Nat and Buck…we'll see where they go. Progress is being made on all sides. :)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references mentioned in the text ( _Hamilton: An American Musical_ , Agatha Christie's works involving Hercule Poirot, etc.)

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	16. Chapter 16

The drive home on Sunday was done in an almost contemplative silence, at least in part. Holly, having kept her promise of meeting Sarah and her mother for breakfast, had pushed the encounter with Tony to the back of her mind. Conversation turned to her getting in touch with the other bridesmaids—three of Sarah's cousins, and Aaron's step-sister—about ordering dresses and squaring away a couple of future party details. As well as that, there was a gift presentation to go through as well, since her birthday had been nearly two weeks earlier (a bookstore gift card and chocolate bars, wrapped up in a novelty t-shirt that proclaimed the wearer to be a "Super Mom." It came with a matching onesie for the baby, and both were decorated with her husband's shield symbol. Needless to say, Jane and Sarah Collins greatly enjoyed her arched eyebrows and gaping mouth). However, it continued to lurk in the shadows as breakfast turned to the noon hour, the simply spoken words springing up as the cabbie navigated back towards the Tower, going slowly as the city was still recovering from the blizzard from the previous weekend. There were no more surprise visitors when she finally got back on the road, with the exception of Kay breezing in with no further information about her friendly neighborhood muggers. Police paperwork was still being processed, and it was unlikely she would find anything before Monday morning, anyway. It was past one o'clock by the time the city traffic had melted away, the highway unfurling before the blue Buick as the brunette manned the helm.

As there was a stretch of three plus hours, the drive itself wasn't entirely devoid of chatter, but when Kay leaned her seat back and declared she would get a bit of shut-eye before arriving home, Holly did have the time to think. Progress had been made, that was her thought the night before. She wasn't sure in which direction, or even if it was much at all, but it had to be a decent amount. It was enough for Tony to give her a facsimile of his normal smirk, to treat her courteously. A little personal nudge to head in the right direction. If not towards forgiveness, perhaps...just a chance to try again.

She hoped Steve would see it that way when she told him. She hoped he would realize that the sorrows and the hurts could only lie for so long, and it would be time, soon enough, to do something about it all. The idea buoyed her spirits somewhat, the last leg of the trip covering yet another gas stop—she was hungry for something greasy, at least to tide her over until dinner, and Kay concurred. The chewy chicken strip infused with cheese went down easily enough, and with a last chorus of the musical album playing, the car was turned off the main road, snow and gravel crunching as she thumbed the garage door sensor and drove in. Parking next to the truck, she stayed put in her seat for a moment or two, listening to the engine as it ticked and pinged in its cool-down. Glancing to her right, she caught the small grin Kay was giving her phone, a message tapped out before pocketing the device.

Turning to look at her companion, the brunette hooked a thumb in the house's direction.

"Want to come in for a bit, not be in a car for awhile?"

Kay chuckled, unbuckling her belt and zipping up her coat. "Thanks, but I promised I'd meet up with Sam. An additional fifteen..."

Taking out her phone again, she bit her lip upon spotting the time, estimating in her head the additional warm-up and driving she would have to put her car through.

"...Twenty minutes, won't kill me," she corrected herself. Holly nodded, tapping the wheel once before unbuckling herself. The garage was frigid, but at least they were out of the wind. The overnight bags were removed, placed on the concrete floor as they were withdrawn. Making her way around the car, the brunette slung an arm around the blue-haired woman's shoulders, thanking her for acting as her bodyguard and promising to pay her back as soon as she could. To her credit, Kay was stiff for only a second or two in the embrace, returning with a sociable back pat.

"By the way, what were you doing to keep yourself busy yesterday? While on the street, I mean?" Holly asked when it ended, her hands going into her pockets. She had meant to ask her blue-haired friend the day before, but then she'd been hustled off the street and back to the Tower so swiftly, the inquiry flew right out of her head. A wide smile decorated the agent's lips, and swiftly she crouched down by her duffel bag. Unzipping it, she reached deep inside it, picking and pushing away the clothes and the wig still inside. Crowing in delight, she found what she was looking for, and soon enough she was holding up a digital camera. It was cumbersome and well-loved, the shutter button looking worn down.

"Can't help it. It goes almost everywhere with me," she breathed, standing up again. Turning it on, she turned the dial, switching over to the memory card and letting Holly take a peek as she scrolled. One after another they went by, Kay's eye in the captured moments. A couple kissing at a bus stop, pigeons perched on a construction awning, a snow-encrusted sign blocking out the letters for the cross street.

"Neat," Holly exclaimed, admiring the pictures as they went by. Slyly, she darted her gaze up, and she forced her face into a neutral expression. "And then you upload them to your Instagram account, right?"

Kay barked out a laugh, giving her shoulder a sharp tap before she turned the camera off again and stowed it safely away.

"Shuddup," she grunted, swinging her bag up easily. A last wave was shared between the two women, and then Holly was fetching up her own bag and purse, the garage door closing just as Kay rounded the corner to get to her own vehicle. Going out the side door, Holly listened for a few moments as the engine on the far side of the structure fired up, idling as it warmed up. Inhaling deeply, she made her way up the freshly-shoveled path to the back door, codes punched in and accepted in record time. The cold of the day was washed away as she stepped into her kitchen, flicking on the light as the darkness of the evening was creeping upon the world. The house itself was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the crunch of snow as Kay's car backed up and motored down the track. Calling out her husband's name, a rumbling baritone answered back quickly, coming directly from the living room. Wandering in that direction, she paused on the far side of the couch, letting her gaze run over him. Steve had, in his moment of peace, claimed the chair, a blanket curled around his waist and spilling over the end of the cushion. His long legs were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle in place of being propped up on the coffee table. The overhead light was on, illuminating both the empty glass of whatever he'd been drinking in his right hand and the opened book in his left hand. Apparently, he was still absorbed in the text, too absorbed to notice the impassive look descending upon her face as she read the title. The face of the returning king of Gondor stared back at her, the tip of her own bookmark still wedged in near the back cover. Everything about him, from his posture to the bit of his own face that she could see, was relaxed, the weight of the world off his shoulders for a moment.

All Steve was missing was a cardigan and a golden retriever curled up by his feet on a woven rug. And a crackling fireplace; it would add to the ambiance, she mused privately. Giggling under her breath, she let her bags drop to the floor, unbuttoning her coat. Slinging it off her shoulders, she looked up in time to see him peeking over the pages, amusement written over his brow. Clearly, he wasn't as absorbed as she'd thought. She let the coat fall along the back of the couch, her scarf and gloves placed atop it.

Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she jerked her chin at the book in his hand and murmured drily, "Stole it back, I see."

A smirk curled his lips, and he leaned forward to deposit his glass on the coffee table. "You were two chapters away from the end, anyway."

Shutting the book and placing it beside the glass, Steve's blue eyes glimmered as he sat back and unfolded his legs, patting his lap for effect. Taking the hint, Holly traipsed across the floor to him, knees hooking over his leg as she sat down. Squirming a bit to get comfortable, she slid her arm around his neck, the other curling into his shirt as she gave a kiss in greeting. He reciprocated gladly, one palm cupping her cheek, the other curled around her thigh.

"So, it looks like all is quiet on the western front. Or, at least the home front," she noted with a wry grin, drawing back after a few seconds. Casting her eyes across the room again, she did not find anything out of the ordinary for the room. Steve looked around as well, shrugging a shoulder.

"Nothing exploded, I can say that much. Had to go in for some planning," he told her, reaching out and twining his finger around the strands of her ponytail. "Got a couple dust-ups in Europe that need some taking care of. Chapman's team is on it, but we're on call in case anything goes sideways."

She inclined her head, pursing her lips a little. "Gotcha."

"How is Sarah?"

"Good, she's good. Got her eye on a few places for her studio, keeping Aaron on his toes. Already has her dress ordered, and made me get mine, too," she confessed, fishing her phone out of her pocket and thumbing through the pictures. Finding a full length one, with her giving an exaggerated wink to the camera, she showed it to him. His chuckle at her expression morphed into an appreciative hum when he saw the rest of her get-up. Idly, his thumb brushed over the screen, rolling to the next picture wherein Sarah had joined her, dazzling hand gestures making her look like a display item. She snickered at that one, taking the device back and secreting it away again. "Generally, she's herself."

"Sounds about right," he responded, eyelids drooping as her fingers continued to run and shuffle through the short hairs at the back of his head. He leaned into her gentle ministrations, contentment on his features. Her free hand, though, fidgeted in her lap, tucking into the end of her sweatshirt's sleeve as she contemplated how to phrase her next sentence. Endeavoring to just bite the bullet and get it over with, she cleared her throat.

"I, uh, I saw somebody else, too."

Steve's eyebrow rose minutely as she let the statement hang. "And your tone indicates that might not have been a good thing."

"I don't think it was bad, per se," Holly stated, her eyes darting to her right. Canting her head, she muttered, "Awkward as hell, yes, and uncomfortable—"

"Who was it, doll?" he interrupted, wanting an answer more than a tangent. Swallowing, she took a deep breath before focusing fully on his eyes once more. Head and heart were in agreement with her on that one, and she would follow their cues.

"Tony." Immediately, she felt Steve stiffen underneath her, tension straightening his spine and his jaw tightening. Holding up a hand, she attempted to stall any sort of reprimand or confused inquiry that was taking shape in his mind. "Before you say anything, I didn't go out of my way to find him. He came down to the quarters, and just asked if I was okay."

A blanket of skepticism cloaked his irises, concern and wonderment layered beneath it.

"That's all?" he asked, watching as she nodded her head. His own fingers started to fidget then, invisible patterns traced over the material of her pants. Concentrating on a point on the far wall, he continued, "How...how was he?"

"Not at his best," she said, focusing on his trailing digits. The image of the exhausted man, of Stark's acrimonious irises and the deep grooves cut into his face, surfaced, and she closed her eyes. "The pain isn't going to go away, but he's getting by, it looked like. I don't know. I hadn't seen him since...before."

Before the fallout, she meant. Groaning slightly, Steve tipped his head back into the cushion.

"And all he wanted to know was if you were alright?" he reiterated, still somewhat nonplussed by the billionaire's approach of his wife. Holly let her head bob up and down, fingers curling around his against her leg.

"I think it was more out of politeness than anything else, but I think he still cares, deep down," she posited. When Steve blinked at that, she squeezed his hand in hers. "At least a little."

Minutes ticked by, with Steve digesting the news, his teeth clenching and his eyes screwing shut against the dull throb of pain. Watching as his throat constricted against a swallow, Holly continued to hold his hand, waited for him to say something. Soon enough, he found his tongue again.

"I should...shouldn't have—" he started, when a finger was laid across his lips in a shushing effort.

"Stop," she cut him off, her mouth turning down into a frown. "Don't do that."

When she removed her finger, his brow furrowed. "Do what?"

Sighing deeply, she shifted, rising from his lap and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Take the entire blame for something out of your control," she said, trying to stop him from going into that downward spiral again. The downward spiral of misplaced guilt. "You know, that thing you do whenever a situation like this presents itself."

He snorted at that, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. "Don't think a situation quite like this has presented itself before."

"Formula's familiar, though," she riposted. Ticking off the points on her fingers, she shuffled away from him, walking back towards the far end of the couch. "A: something bad happens that affects you personally, plus B: you're unable to act to it in what you deem as the correct way, and it equals C: everything about said badness is all your fault, including the factors you had absolutely zero control over. With the solution being to self-flagellate, and then throwing yourself headlong into danger as penance."

Steve's eyes narrowed, and he scoffed, "It's not like that at all."

Vehemently, Holly shook her head, turning to face him and settling her hip against the arm of the couch.

"Oh, no, it's _exactly_ like that. Sure, you've gotten a bit better about it since I've met you, but my God, sweetheart, you've got it down to a freakin' science now." Her fingers flicked through the air. One of his hands had curled into a fist, his knuckles pressed against his mouth. "Two summers ago is a pretty good example."

"Holly." The warning note in his voice told her that she was pushing it, but she willfully ignored it.

"Or we could reach even farther back to what happened with Bucky initially—"

"Enough!" he spat out, the fist coming down and thumping against his knee, making her jump slightly. A muted groan rumbled in his throat as he rose from the chair, turning and crossing over to one of the bookshelves. Hands scrubbed at his face as he kept his back to her, one of them raking through his hair. Fingers curled around one of the higher shelves, it creaking a little as he rested his weight against the unit. The silence between them was heavy, permeating the room for some time. Holly bit the inside of her lip, berating herself for perhaps pushing him too far with the last point. Still, it did not negate her feelings on the matter, nor her thoughts. Quietly, she waited until a low sigh poured out of his nose, and for the slight slump of his shoulders to indicate the dissipation of the frustration. Gingerly, she picked her way over to him, stopping behind him and laying a palm between his shoulder blades. When he did not shrug her off, she let her thumb rub small circles into the material of his shirt, gathering herself before speaking again.

"My point, Steven, is that you're not responsible for everything. Just one part; a pretty important part, from my perspective, but just the one." And it was just from her perspective. But her perspective also witnessed her husband take on sorrows and hurts that did not belong to him, sharing in suffering because he felt he should have been able to do something about it all. He couldn't get stuck in that mindset interminably. Not when solutions were called for instead. "You should concentrate on making amends for that, and not the whole. That isn't on you."

A final rub of her thumb, and the warmth of her fingers disappeared from his back.

"Now, are you hungry?"

Grinding his teeth for a moment, he let himself nod eventually. "Yes."

"Me, too. Better get cracking," she told him, the light footfall on the carpet telling him she had moved away. Off the quizzical expression he shot her over his shoulder, she supplied, "It's your turn to make dinner."

A flash of incredulity sparked over his features, but Holly missed it as she bent to retrieve her bags. She had said her piece, and it was his turn to cook; her stomach growled at the thought of eating soon, and let her fingers brush over it briefly as she walked towards the stairs.

"Gonna ride roughshod over me while I'm doing that, too?" Steve snapped at her as she went, not entirely happy with the turn of events. She rolled her eyes, but did not bother to stop in her tracks.

"Please," she groused back, determined not to feel bad about the goading she had given him. It was meant well, and in her opinion, something he needed to hear. Perhaps she could have chosen better examples, but she was working with the material given to her. As she made her way to the bedroom, she started hearing the over-exaggerated clanks and thumps from the room below, the man she'd married just as determined for her to hear him go about his task. Quirking her jaw, she just craned her neck towards the ceiling, silently asking for patience. Dirty clothes went into the hamper, the birthday present set atop the dresser, and her purse was hooked up in the closet. Taking the opportunity to change into leggings and a new maternity sweater (still a little big on her, but it was warm and comfy), she managed to get down the hall to the office to answer another email from the new publishing house that was interested in her manuscript. A video meeting was scheduled for the end of the week, and the smell of something savory made its way up to her when she'd moved on to checking her favorite websites. She could practically feel the baby turn and roll in excitement in her belly at the prospect of dinner; the fried and greasy amalgamation from the gas station seemed like a distant memory. However, it was roughly about a half hour later before Steve called up to her, letting her know it was all ready.

There was real, home-cooked chicken set out on the table, part of a casserole brimming with pasta, broccoli, and even some bacon bits thrown into the mix. (Hastily, he thumbed off the tablet, the recipe he had followed disappearing from the screen as he set it down on the island.) On the surface, it seemed as though Steve had gone for simplicity, but as she made her way to the table, she caught sight of the sink. Or rather, the ring of cookware surrounding the sink. It had seemed that Steve had emptied the cabinets of every piece they owned and used them. Which would not have been an issue, if the person who had not done the cooking for the night was not responsible for washing up, as was their deal. Inhaling sharply, she stared at him as she sat down, silently allowing him to fill her plate and let him have his little passive-aggressive victory. She was very hungry, and frankly, she wouldn't allow him to get under her skin at that moment. There was little conversation to be had, his stormy blue eyes focused on the food before him while her brown gaze ricocheted around the room. The pair sat across from one another and veritably marinated in all that was said earlier, annoyance and frustration melting into a sort of morose thoughtfulness.

Later, when she'd eaten her fill, Holly made her displeasure known.

"Seriously, all these dishes," she groaned when she stepped up to the sink, irritation lacing her features. Lifting up a couple, she checked the undersides for their labels, letting out another huff. Over her shoulder, she shot him a glare. "And you used none of the dishwasher-safe ones."

"Almost none," he retorted, meeting her heated gaze with a bland expression. For emphasis, he tapped the plate and fork still in front of him. Taking the last bite himself, he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, coming forward with his dishes and handing them off to her. Balling up the napkin, he aimed for the trashcan, tossing it with alacrity and sinking the shot. A small peck was planted in her hair, and he murmured, "For that part, I'm very sorry."

He pivoted on his heel as her jaw dropped open, and she narrowed her eyes as he walked away.

"Yeah. Let's see what kind of amends you'll make for it," she crowed, shoving the dishes down the counter to start filling the basins. With her back to him, she did not notice him pausing in his flight. Hovering in the archway, the bland look seemed to give way something that resembled contrition, and he seemed to be on the verge of speaking again. However, Steve just cleared his throat, walking out of the room and leaving her to the chore.

Upon closer examination, some of the bowls and pots that had been removed from the cupboard did not actually contain any remnants of food or spices. They had been placed for effect. Groaning again, she just set those off to the side, working to scrub at the truly dirty dishes for several long minutes. By the time she had released the strainers and let the water drained, her anger had cooled slightly. A couple of the dishes were set upon the rack to dry, while a few were hand-dried and stored right away. Giving her hands another wash, she braced herself upon the counter's edge and took in a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly to counts of ten. She had pushed, and he pushed back. It was not the end of the world, just a lot of harsh truth passing in the space of a few minutes. It would be fine.

It was about that moment when she registered the music floating in from the living room. The record player was running, a slower song grinding out of the speakers. Unconsciously, she started swaying to the music, and she caught the dotted flicker of flames through the arch. Curiosity now piqued, she wandered away from the sink, stepping into the archway. A match flared as Steve struck it against the side of the box, tilting the last candle towards himself and lighting it carefully. As the wick sputtered and caught, he set the candle in place, blowing out the match before he could burn his fingers. The previously emptied glass on the coffee table (which had been pushed to the far corner of the room) had been filled from one of the bathroom sinks, a couple of matches already floating in the water. Dropping in the last one, Steve looked back towards the arch, wiping his hands along the sides of his trousers. The glow of candlelight somehow made the larger space more intimate, and she couldn't help but be drawn in. Still, her eyebrows inclined, pointed glances around the room making him incline his head and smile ruefully.

"Does this work?" he asked, holding out a hand to her. Closing the gap between them, she allowed him to place one of her palms upon his shoulder, the other hand having his fingers wrap around hers. In a slow circle, they turned, stepping in time to the beat as he rested his hand on the small of her back. His phone had been hooked up to the portable speakers, the set-up stationed atop the record player, her previous supposition incorrect. The playlist, one of slower songs, churned out another piece, soothing tones calming them both further.

"It's a start," she conceded, unable to deny the romantic gesture's effect upon her. Looking up at him, she raised her hand, trailing her finger along his jawline. Leaning in a little closer, she waited until he had followed suit, eyelids drooping and lips only inches from hers. Steadily, she quietly demanded, "Tell me I'm right."

Steve's eyes widened, and he viewed the seriousness in hers. Inhaling deeply, he worked for a moment to loosen his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"You're...not entirely wrong."

At once, she stopped moving with him, her palms out and taking a step away.

"Nope. Close, but no cigar," she announced, and within a trice, she twisted out of his grasp. Stunned at her movement, he gaped for a second or two, his brain catching up swiftly.

"Hey, now. Wait!" he cried, turning as she went to the staircase. Huffing under his breath, Steve vaulted over the sofa and jogged the short distance towards the steps. Reaching over the banister and snatching her wrist in time to pause her ascent, he stalled. Inclining his head, he breathed out crisply, meeting her dark gaze. "You're right, okay? It's just...it's not easy. None of it is."

The vulnerability in his irises, in his voice were impossible to miss. Though it had only been about two months, it had been a difficult time, for them all. And solutions would not be easy to conjecture. Her heart clenched at it, and her feet moved on their own accord, bringing her back down to the main floor. He had let her go as she came back down the stairs, let her make the choice to return to him.

"No, it's not," Holly agreed. Palms slid up his chest, crooking around his neck and bringing him closer to her. Arms wrapped around her waist, and his forehead rested against hers. Pads fluttered over the skin, along the edge of his hair, and she sighed in tandem with him. "But it'll get figured out. Right?"

Not right that second, or even in the next few days. But it was getting to be time to stop shutting it out or shutting it down. That was the whole point. She wouldn't force him into doing anything, but she did want him to at least consider his options as far as Tony was concerned. Deep down, she knew he understood that, too. His arms tightened, and even despite the doubt that flashed over his face, he nodded.

"One way or another."

A kiss was brushed on the tip of his nose, and then another was planted at the corner of his mouth.

"Okay then," she said, reaching behind to take his hand in hers, leading him back to the impromptu dance floor of their living room.

 **xXxXxXx**

Early morning on February 2nd dawned cold and barren, at least on the maximum security prison outside Berlin. It was early, nearly too early for anyone to be functioning, let alone visiting the stark building, the concrete exterior cutting a dark swatch against the landscape. It was necessary, though, for him to be there, to get in and out before anyone was able to look closely at the matter.

Adjusting his wire frame spectacles, the man slid his fingers over his dull brown hair, combing it into place as he waited for the access doors to unlock and let him through. Sharp, assessing eyes bounced from the guards on patrol to the cameras stationed every few feet as he walked, a joking salute tipped to one of them as he went. His illicitly obtained visitor's badge was waved as he passed through the security points, the file folders he carried with him not even given a cursory glance. He appeared harmless, and it was assumed that only people of note, or people of impeccable reputation (not to mention ones who passed the interminable background checks) would be allowed access to such a facility. Or the ones with big, fat pocketbooks could get wherever they chose. If there was one thing he did have left to him, it was money, no matter how bad a taste it left in his mouth.

Escorted to the private interrogation rooms on the third floor, he was instructed to wait there. The prisoner he had come to see would be brought in shortly. The space was simple: boring beige walls, matted carpeting, with a table in the center. The chairs did not match, one being bolted to the floor with chain adjustments on the legs and arms, while the other was a simple desk chair. Setting his folders on the table before him, he sat back in the desk chair, the minutes ticking by as his watch clicked in the silence of the room. When nearly ten rotations of the minute hand had gone around, the security locks on the door behind him sprang loose, and he turned in time to watch the prisoner being conducted into the room.

Prisoner #2014786, or as her given name proclaimed her, Johanna Jensen. Doctor Johanna Jensen, weapons developer and recruiter for Strucker's private army in Africa nearly a year ago. She had been detained and arrested swiftly by the Avengers, her manufactured wares and goods stolen from her as she was processed and turned over for sentencing. Upon her request, the judge had granted her permission to serve out her sentence in Germany, the original country of her cause.

However, it did not appear that she was much given to the cause at the moment, the loose fit of her red uniform and the obvious jut of her jaw and cheekbones bespeaking her lack of care. She did not eat enough, that was clear, nor did she care to make herself presentable. Her unkempt, shaggy hair was growing out of its cropped cut, the ends flopping over the tops of her ears (it did looked washed, though, and for that he was thankful). Indeed, it did not seem that she had much hope of anything. Loss laced her person, and while he was of the opinion that she did not know what true loss was, it had not stopped it from chipping away at her.

Still, her dark gaze was sharp, meeting his fully as she was seated across the table from him. She continued her staring as the chains about her legs were secured to the bolted chair, her hands freed next and balling in her lap. A swift glance was darted to the guards as they left her with the strange man, and once the door was shut and sealed behind them, she raised an eyebrow.

"Doctor Jensen, I am Doctor Leonard Cohen," he introduced himself, presenting the false name with a slightly nasal accent. His form was nearly folded in on itself as he addressed her, non-threatening and deceptively calm. "I am here to perform your psychological evaluation, per a recent court order. An appeal is being built on your behalf, and a new assessment on your mental state is needed to proceed."

Suspiciously, she gazed at him. He controlled the tick of his mouth, keeping it in a firm line as she sized him up. There was no appeal in the works for her; her case was cut and dry from the beginning. No appeal could be attempted so soon after her arrest, and there was no possibility of parole, either. All this she knew. Her body shifted, the uniform moving with her as she set her folded hands upon the table's top.

"Very well," she replied, her tone informing him that she was willing to play along, though she did not trust him. Inclining his head, he let his eyes flicker over to the camera in the far corner. Three beats of the heart, and the red light above it shut off. The stand of the camera pivoted away from the center of the room, facing the wall to the left instead. Spine straightening, he sat up fully, his form filling out and suddenly making him all the more imposing. Turning, she witnessed the camera's shut-down, and a small jump of fear made her throat quirk as she noted his change in posture. He restrained himself from chuckling aloud; no doubt she was wondering what was going on. All in due time, he mused privately.

"We have ten minutes before the rotation changes over," he announced quietly, accent dropped as he turned over one of the folders and flipped through the pages swiftly. "The guards assured me this would be adequate for both of us."

Her eyes went wide, a gormless cast overtaking her features. "Excuse me?"

Glancing up, he rolled his eyes at her, flapping his free hand in the air.

"Come now. I did not pay good bribe money to have you sit slack-jawed and looking dull."

The reprimand brought a flush of red to her cheeks, and a fire began to burn low in her gaze. Lifting a shoulder, he did not apologize for his words, instead continuing with his task until he found what he was looking for. Humming in delight, he removed the blue sheets of papers from the pile, all folded and crammed in between other papers as a disguise. Obtaining them had been no sinecure; one of Rumlow's contacts had nearly been killed simply for pulling them from the secured filing of the U.N. confiscation rooms. They were absolutely essential, though, for them to continuing making any sort of progress. That explanation did not mollify Crossbones in the least, but it did make him shut up about the matter, for a day or two.

"I have these incomplete blueprints of your previous work," he stated, unfolding a few of the sheets and scattering them over the table before her. Her designs to harness the power of Loki's scepter and build new weaponry out of them was nothing short of genius, even if she was relegated to smaller tasks. List and Strucker never really knew what they had; it was a shame they did not utilize her for the main projects. "I realize that the majority of these are missing the required components, but I had hoped that you would be able to enlighten me on some...potential compatible materials." Off her inquisitive glance, he shrugged, unwilling to go into detail then. "We tried for a particular one, but we were unable to actually obtain it, so I am hoping you can help us find alternates."

Hesitantly, she reached out, trailing a finger along the outline of one of the modified handguns she had constructed, a form of pride and heartache in her gaze.

"My work...I had thought it had all been confiscated, or destroyed." Swallowing hard, she tore her eyes away from the pages, narrowing in on him "Who are you?"

A bitter, warped grin came to the man's lips. "An arbiter of revenge. You may call me Z. I'm here to make you an offer, Johanna. You accept, I will get you out of here, and back to work. Back to destroying the Avengers. You refuse..."

Pointedly, he trailed off, a dismissive hand cupping the air before dropping into his lap.

"Well, then. I'm sure the next forty years of your sentence will just roll on. Much like the rest of the world." Her jaw twitched, and he leaned forward, pressing his advantage. "You will remain the footnote to the text in the history books, forgotten and unimportant in comparison to List, Zola, the baron, and many, many others."

Jensen glared, and then snarled, "Why should I agree to anything? If you recall, my former promises to a major organization were not repaid. Strucker dragged me here, and HYDRA will not get me out, if they still exist at all."

Ah, there it was, exactly what he was looking for: the disenchantment, the disillusion with her chosen cause. He could see it in the broken line of her shoulders, the sharp cut of her jaw, and in the frustrated, furious glaze in her irises. It was exactly what he needed to get what he wanted, what they all wanted.

"In actuality, the Avengers dragged you here," he pointed out, looking as though he'd sampled something sour. She mirrored his expression, and acknowledged the truth of the matter with a dip of her chin. "And HYDRA may not get you out...but _I_ will. You still have work to do, doctor. We could use someone like you. Someone with your ingenuity."

If they ever wanted to proceed past the small jobs and the petty larceny, if there ever was to be a reckoning for those self-righteous bastards who called themselves 'Earth's mightiest heroes,' he needed more. Patience had gotten him far, but there was also a need to act. Rumlow provided the brawn, he had the vision, and Jensen would be able to use her intelligence and engineering know-how in a more productive manner. For that to happen, though, they needed her out of the enemy's reach. They needed her consent. He watched as she chewed her lip, considering his offer for a minute or so.

"I could refuse, and then report your visit," she commented lightly. His brow furrowed at her pronouncement; was she being clever with him? Had to be, as her eyebrows arched up and a snappish grin graced her mouth. "But I'm not foolish enough to believe I could get away with something like that."

The smile he gave her was chilling, the ice in his eyes freezing her as he stared at her.

"My partner is a mercenary, Johanna. You would be foolish indeed if you entertained that notion," he told her, the calm in his voice suddenly bearing a hard, unyielding edge. Her only response was to blink rapidly, her arms crossing over her chest as she shrunk back into her seat. It was undeniable; the man before her was intelligent, and not to be underestimated. He dropped his gaze then, scanning over the watch upon his wrist and tutting. The lighter tone from before colored his words as he spoke again. "Two minutes. I'm afraid I shall need an answer."

Eyes fastened on the blueprints, and before too many ticks of the watch clicked, she exhaled sharply out of her nose.

"...Do you have a pen?" she asked, holding out her left hand. The smirk on his face spoke volumes as he dug out the writing implement, handing it over to her. Quickly, she scratched a few notes dropping the pen in the blueprints and sliding all back to his side of the table. "Here are a couple of compatible materials to get you started. You want the rest, I suggest you get me out quickly."

So she knew her own value, knew that if she gave the whole game away, he would have no reason to let her loose. Jensen would be a fine addition to his organization. At the very least, she would would likely be a better investment than Klaue ever was. A few different options started to run through his head, some rejected outright simply because he knew Rumlow would flat-out refuse to follow through with them. Oh, well. To her, he merely tipped his head in farewell, unreadable neutrality his expression as he rose from the table, the plans secreted into his file folders.

"Will do, Doctor Jensen," he murmured, eyes darting to the camera in the corner. Approximately seven seconds passed before the blinking red light turned on, and the lens pivoted from the corner back to the center of the room. Clearing his throat, he let his shoulders slump, making his form at once diminutive and unremarkable. Raising his voice for the benefit of whoever was listening, he coughed, "I will forward my report to the evaluation committee in due time. Have a good day."

A whir and a clunk sounded, the door opening behind him and the guard from earlier gesturing for him to leave at once. Nodding to her, the man called Z stumbled out of the room, and Johanna Jensen breathed out a sigh. Mutely, she allowed the other guard to unlock the cuffs at her ankles, her lip almost bitten to shreds to keep the gleeful smile from her face as she was marched back to her cell.

The arbiter of revenge, he had called himself. She could only hope he would follow through in his promises, spoken and silent.

* * *

 **A/N:**...This chapter kinda kicked my butt, but hey, I figured it out, finally! Also, shorter chapter this week. Remember when my chapters used to be around four thousand words, max? Ah, the past...:-P

Yeah, Holly's trying to kick Steve back into play in regards to making amends with Tony. Which he's kinda been dragging his feet on, because of...well, self-blame and the uncertainty of the whole situation. Blame Sarah for her gumption; she's a bad influence. ;) Again, things won't be resolved by the next week (this ain't a sit-com) but he can at least be actively looking for a way to start really apologizing for his part in the whole debacle. And yeah, Steve has a petty moment; remember, he's a good man, but not a perfect one!

And remember Doctor Jensen from the last story? Oh, yeah, she's going to be making a comeback. Had to get in a little villain time as well.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture reference made in the text ( _The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, All Quiet on the Western Front_ , Marvel comics, etc).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	17. Chapter 17

The quinjet coasted through the air, a dark swatch against the clouds and the sky. A call had come in from the helicarrier, Nick Fury requesting the assistance of the Avengers on a case being handled by one of his scouting teams. Information pertaining to their own recent endeavors was involved, he'd said, and it was therefore prudent to at least look into the matter. Sensing the issue to be serious, but not a major threat, he delegated that only two should go meet the contact who had requested the aid. The word was that the two women of the team were specifically asked for, though the final decision would be left up to them. Though it raised several eyebrows, the captain had let them choose whether or not to go. As such, they had agreed to it; Wanda needed more experience working one-on-one with another teammate, and Natasha could be trusted to meet the task. Soon enough, they were packed up and on the next flight out, ready to meet the challenge.

"How much longer until we reach...Bucharest?" the female Maximoff wondered, looking at the tablet that had been handed to her. It was approximately halfway through the flight, or thereabouts, when she asked, her normal distraction methods not at her disposal at the moment. (Her phone had run out of battery, she'd already finished her book, and the Vision was not on hand to field observations or expound on data with.) She was left finally doing her homework, and she had groaned a little under her breath at the prospect. The provided information, such as it was, had listed the capital of Romania as the drop-off point. Her personal bag sat at her feet, the seat's harness disregarded as she sat near the back of the jet. Her compatriot sat on the bench across from her, bag perched on the seat to the left.

"Two, maybe three hours max," Romanoff replied, bending down to tighten the laces on her boots. "A contact is meeting us there, he'll fill us in."

Wanda's eyebrow rose. "He?"

"Or she," the other woman amended. Shrugging a shoulder, she tipped her head to one side. "They weren't really specific by design."

As always, it was best for the mission contacts to remain as shrouded in mystery as possible. Running the risk of giving definite identification of the people involved, and by chance giving a potential infiltrator more information to pass onto his or her superiors, was not a viable option. To Natasha, it was second nature to be told next to nothing about contacts, but she knew the younger woman would need the reminder on occasion.

For her part, the Maximoff girl snorted and dipped her chin. "Fair point."

Two to three hours was enough to get some rest, which Natasha intended on doing. She did not know what exactly they would be in for, yet, and it would be best to get what she could beforehand. Another chance might not come for days. Curling up on her bench, her brain would not allow her to slip away fully. Half a mind was trained towards the cockpit, listening in on the pilot's back and forth chatter as he called in, and the other half was spent pondering another conundrum (mild irritation, she tried to correct herself, not wanting to accord the little voice in her head any further leverage than it needed).

Barnes hadn't called in for his weekly report, five days already gone by the time their aid was requested. Despite the requirements of his employment with the helicarrier crews, he had not met the stipulation, something he always did. The guy was punctual, and paranoid about keeping to the rules that allowed him his chance at freedom; it was odd to go so long without a word from him. Instead, Steve and she were left with a simple message from Fury, personal assurances left for the continued existence of the ex-assassin. Something about it didn't sit right with either of them, unspoken conversation passed between them before she had set off on the mission. When it was finished, she was going to assert her authority and take a little side-trip to the carrier to investigate that matter. Or to beat the crap out of Barnes in case it was just a case of forgetting to do so. Memory failure was not uncommon in cases like his, but he had gone over a year and a half without drawing too many blanks. Nope, she'd kick his ass, and then be relieved about knowing what was going on.

Once that conclusion was reached, it was a lot easier to fall into sleep, the rest of the trip gone in mere moments that way.

Outside the city limits, the quinjet landed, the two Avengers dispatched on foot with directions to the nearest safe house. Looking like a pair of back-packing hikers, the two women took their time getting to the city center, Wanda following Natasha's lead in regards to blending into the populace, disappearing in plain sight. It would take years before she would even be at a level close to the Black Widow's duplicity, but some carefully constructed hexes were thrown, illusory ones that twisted the nearby minds to think nothing of young women traveling alone through a foreign capital. Checking her watch, Natasha indicated silently that it was time to meet up with the contact, gesturing for her partner to flag down a cab. Another aura jutted from her hand into the cabbie's head as they climbed in, the older man's reality warped so that he would not remember anything about the fare that took them all into an older part of the city. The taxi dropped them off half a mile from the safe house. It was a hike, but neither woman verbally complained about it. Sticking to the shadows of the buildings, letting the setting sun do its natural work and hiding them as they went, they eventually came in front of an apartment building, rundown red brick with green shutters and boards over some of the windows. The outer door yielding under Wanda's touch, the swinging portal causing both of them to share a dark look. As per the instructions given to them, they traversed the rickety staircase at the back of the tenement, up to the fourth floor. The weathered door at the back seemed just as beaten as the others dotting the walls, but as she once again consulted the instructions, Natasha hooked her finger along the paneling, a number pad revealed. Tapping in a provided six-digit code, a whir and click echoed from within the walls, the handle automatically turning. Snapping the panel shut, she led the way into the rooms, the younger woman on her heels. The two of them examined the living area, the warped floorboards meeting the rundown walls, the wallpaper on them faded. Two other doors flanked the far wall, and a kitchen made up the back of the apartment. It was there that the focus was drawn; their contact was at the sink, tall, dark, looming, and his back was to them. Once the outer door latched back into place, he turned, and Natasha let her face show her surprise.

"Oh, my God, you're everywhere," she ground out jokingly, eyebrows arching perfectly as she stared at him. A dark one spiked back at her, and the gloved left hand went up to tuck back his lengthening hair behind his ear. Cornflower blue eyes lit up with a devious mirth, the strong jaw setting and mouth curving into a smirk.

"That has been my reputation," Bucky Barnes asserted, some of the brightness in his gaze dimming for a moment. Shaking his head, he cast a glance at the auburn-haired woman to her left and nodded to her. "Hi, Wanda."

"James," she greeted him, the frown on her face having morphed into a tiny grin. She strode forward, giving the ex-assassin a genial pat on his arm, the flesh one. "You're looking well."

"Thanks," he replied, flashing her a tight smile of his own, the storm in his irises seemingly calmed by the green gaze she directed at him. The tiniest twinge of something registered in Natasha's gut, but she refused to pay it any mind. There was work to be done; whatever the nasty little flicker was, it had to wait. Before another word could be spoken between the pair, a blur of white and blue mist whizzed into the small room, the form of Pietro Maximoff coming to a standstill between the girl and the so-called Winter Soldier. His hands went on his hips, and after he dipped his chin at the redheaded beauty, he tutted at his sister.

"Nothing for me?" he groused, head shaking and silvered locks falling onto his brow. His sister scoffed audibly and tilted her face to the ceiling. If one could hear her thoughts, Natasha supposed they would be hearing her pray for patience.

"What's there to say, Pietro? You're you." The girl called the Scarlet Witch cupped her palms in the air, affording her brother a flat look. "If you weren't, I'd know by now."

He looked mildly affronted by that, but he accepted her offer of a hug with decent enough humor. Blinking, Bucky strode away from the siblings, allowing them a moment to catch up.

"Didn't think you'd be seeing me so soon, huh?" he asked the redhead facetiously, extending a hand and tapping her lightly on the shoulder. The corner of his mouth turned up, and the glint in his eyes returning. She snorted at that, but couldn't quite quell the amusement curving her mouth.

"Figured you'd be off spit-shining Fury's boots this week," she retorted mildly, resting her hip on the nearby table.

Bucky carded a hand through his hair, letting it drop to the table top and leaning against it. Veritably towering over her, he gave her a rueful smirk, eyeing up the toe of his boot.

"He's given me until Thursday to get it done," he riposted, a look flashed at her from beneath his eyelashes. He grinned, inviting her to take the joke, and she returned it carefully. One breath, then two, and she straightened her back, hand gesturing to their ragtag gathering.

"So what is it that has us crossing paths?" she queried in a louder tone, drawing away from the edge and pulling the twins back into the conversation. Clearing his throat, Bucky tipped his palms towards the chairs surrounding the table, all four of them sitting down and preparing to discuss business.

"My team was sent in to investigate a few discovered HYDRA hidey-holes around the country for the last few days." His sharp gaze darted around the small apartment they were in, bare save for the most essential of furniture and goods. Natasha tracked his path, taking the silent examination as a hint that they were standing in one those very hideaways he was reporting about. Now, it was a SHIELD hidey-hole. So this was where he'd been when he was supposed to report in; good to know. Shaking his head, he went on. "Some have been mostly abandoned, but a couple bore...results. One of which being a mercenary that has been on Mr. Chapman's radar."

"Actually, Finesse handles the radar. If anything, it's bothering her more," the young man codenamed Quicksilver pointed out from his seat by the window. When all he received were impatient stares (Bucky and Wanda) and an arched eyebrow of disinterest (the Black Widow clearly did not welcome the disruption), he coughed and rolled his shoulders back. Flapping a hand in the air, he muttered, "But, whatever. Continue, Tin Man."

Bucky snorted. "Sure thing, Scarecrow. This mercenary has been digging through whatever he could find in the hideouts as well. Officially, he's hired through—"

"Klaue," Pietro interrupted again, though his sober expression stemmed any form of frustrated outburst coming from the others. Blue and white mist swirled, with him exiting the kitchen and entering again, a file folder dropped between the two women. Papers spilled forth, Fury's handpicked reconnaissance operatives having come through on that score and reporting all that had happened internally with the South African's black market operations. "Well, not so much him, obviously, but his old second-in-command has him on the payroll. With his former boss out of the way, he's been making a few splashes of his own. Seems determined to find something in some way. So that's where this guy comes in."

"This guy," Bucky said, retrieving his personal tablet from the side room. Tapping through, he found a surveillance photo taken of the fellow in question and showed it to them. Thinning red hair crowned a square-shaped head, eyes hidden behind sunglasses and a scar cutting from the bridge of his nose down his left cheek. A formidable guy, if appearances were anything to go by. "With a right hook that will knock you flat on your ass."

Bright eyes glinted up at him, slowly drawing down his body.

"You seem to be alright, for all that," Natasha observed when she met his gaze fully. He canted his head to the right,

"Oh, it wasn't me," he reassured them all. With a grimace, he recounted, "One of the team went in, head first. Got in a few lucky punches before hitting the pavement. I got the left jab."

He pulled at the collar of his Henley shirt, revealing the healing splotch of purple-green along his clavicle. Revealing the chain that was still hanging around his neck, the dog tag hidden the folds of the cloth. How it hadn't been broken in the fight was beyond her, but she just nodded, and he let the shirt fall back into place.

"Problem is, this man is no spy, or agent. He's clumsy, probably because he's not hunting a person."

"So you stumbled upon him by chance," Wanda concluded, working through the flow of events out loud. "Then you alerted Fury, who told Chapman—"

"Who sent me out here," Pietro supplied helpfully. Actually, he had more or less volunteered to go, when they'd let slip who was to be the contact; though not on the greatest terms with Bucky, he did trust the man to have his back in an altercation, and was willing to work with him. It was due to that, that made the relaying operatives more careful when they called for help from the primary team.

"And now you've all brought us in," Natasha murmured. Looking from the two men to her own would-be partner, she leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why?"

The two men shared a loaded glance. Their private reconnaissance had not turned up much on the fellow, save that he was at his most open and free when he attended clubs in the city. One club in particular held his attention, and it was one he would likely be at that night. His normal entourage of fellow mercenaries and hired bodyguards would be a distance, clubbing seeming to be solitary activity for the guy. Unfortunately, given that he had already escaped Bucky once, he knew his face; he wouldn't be able to approach him without potentially risking the clientele at the club. And Pietro, well, he had thought of another way to detain the guy for questioning. It wasn't the best plan, but it was really all they had, short of a raid. And frankly, none of them really wanted it to progress to that level.

Which was how they found themselves traipsing across the city center several hours later, outfitted for a covert mission after night had shrouded the sky. Though, in Natasha's opinion, it seemed more overt than was necessary.

"This is cliché as hell and incredibly stupid," the former assassin growled out the side of her mouth, eyes narrowing in contempt for the venture. The cut-off shorts she'd liberated from the closed thrift store were riding up on her, the Nirvana shirt beneath her borrowed flannel (one of Bucky's, nicked as they were walking out the door; he didn't stop her, in any case) threadbare and uncomfortable even when hidden beneath her wool coat. She cut a glance over to Wanda, who seemed oddly at ease with the torn pants and midriff-baring halter, her winter coat opened to reveal it. Her own flannel shirt had been stolen with the rest, tied around her waist and a choker around her neck. At least combat boots were not out of the ordinary, where they were going. She would have hated ditching her boots for unreliable footwear (she'd more than make do, but boots were really what she did best in).

A silvered head poked between the two women, arms draping languidly over their shoulders as he walked with them. The elder Maximoff, as well as Barnes, were not attired like the girls. Instead, they sported black shirts and pants, tactical armor secreted beneath it all. They would not be going into the club with them; rather, they would monitor the situation via comm links from outside, intervening only when their help was requested, should they need it.

"What, you've never walked into a party and seduced a target before?" he inquired, inclining his head towards her.

Natasha gave Pietro a sideways glare. Of course she had. More times than she cared to admit. Her early career alone was built on finding a mark and swaying them into compliance. Many of her assignments with SHIELD had proceeded to follow that path as well. However, since becoming an Avenger, she'd had less and less opportunity to take up missions that highlighted using her specific...seduction talents. It said a lot about the young man beside her, as he had come up with the plan of using not only her, but his sister, as the opportunity had presented itself. Since he was on her other side, she did not see Bucky's look of mild interest, his curiosity at her reply (his brief flicker of irritation as the younger man kept his arm wrapped around her shoulders, though that was swiftly suppressed).

The fiery redhead laughed bitterly, without a trace of humor. "That's why I can say it's cliché."

"But it's not stupid enough for you to actually walk away. Or come up with something else," he retorted, chuckling as she rolled her eyes and shrugged his arm off of her.

"Well, it's not like it's a benefit or something," Wanda piped up, her loose hair shifting as she craned her head to look around her brother. "We're going to a grunge club, with ear-blasting music. And we might not even have to seduce him at all. You could probably throw the man into the bar and nobody would look twice."

Acknowledging the point, Natasha felt a little cheered. However, a thought nagged at the back of her mind, and she felt compelled to voice it.

"What do you know about grunge clubs, kid?" she wondered, eager to hear the answer.

"I am twenty-five, thank you," the younger Maximoff twin sniffed haughtily. After a few moments, she broke the facade and sighed loudly. "And the late teenage years were an experience."

Leaning closer to Natasha's ear, Pietro mumbled in a stage whisper, "Ask her about October 12th, 2009. Is a funny story."

Wanda frowned, elbowing him in the stomach and shaking her head. "Shut up, Pietro."

That launched a round heated discussion in Slovak, leaving two ex-assassins very much out of the loop and passing looks to one another. The brother would retort in a sarcastic tone, the sister would snap back, and the cycle repeated as the cement and cobblestones of the streets passed beneath their feet. As a result, the two older people started to hang back from the younger ones, walking in a leisurely pace and watching the row play out. Still, when the fight went on for several more minutes, Barnes audibly groaned, tipping his head back and glaring at the sky. It was getting on his nerves, and he had plenty to be jumpy about that evening as it was.

"If they keep bickering in their first language, I'm going to have to give them some very specific words from mine," Bucky muttered to her, bending his head so that the arguing ones in question could not hear him. Natasha snickered, a small smile gracing her lips.

"English curses lose their effect after a while," she informed him, choosing that moment to spit out one in Russian while sporting the sweetest smile. He shook his head at her, unable to hide the amusement and the tiny blip of admiration streaking across his irises. The humor in her faded quickly, another pondered thought forcing its way out. "Why are you here again?"

There was no reason for him to be, after all. He'd done his duty, made contact and supplied information for the team members to use. Typical circumstances dictated that he would have been recalled, either to embark on another mission or meet with his superior to debrief on the one he had finished with. Hell, he didn't even have to be there as the contact in the first place. Something like suspicion bloomed inside her, and she stared at him as they continued to walk, their pace much slower now.

Ice invaded his gaze, but before he could formulate an answer, they had turned a corner, their journey at its end. The club's underground entrance was just ahead, and it was time for the male Maximoff and him to depart.

"Save the questions for later," he breathed, words ghosting over her ear and causing a stray shiver to slide down her spine. Signaling Pietro with a couple of fingers, he let the younger man precede him down the nearby alley. "We'll be around back if you need us."

Surging forward, he wrapped a hand around her bicep, squeezing gently before he vanished from her side. Left her slightly dazed, and a little befuddled. Wanda's fingers curling around her wrist brought her out her jumbled musings. Job, mission. Focus, she reminded herself harshly, and she followed the younger woman's lead, brilliant smiles and fake identification getting them past the bouncer.

The club was packed, Pearl Jam nearly blasting out her eardrums through the speakers as they stationed themselves at the bar. It was all dark colors and seedy posters, the bar looking distressed and weathered on top of the concrete floor. Exposed beams and bare-bulb lamps were hanging above them, the light glowing and pulsing. Other grunge enthusiasts filtered around them, a select few jumping and rocking out on the dance floor in the back corner. It did not take them long to spot their target: he stuck out like a sore thumb, dressed conservatively and making no attempt to hide his thinning red hair. Wanda tipped her head to Natasha, silently asking if she should be the first to make a move. Flicking her fingers in the air, the older woman beckoned her to follow, Pietro's chatter crackling over the comms in their ears. As one, the two took on the guise of drunken friends, American girls who had a shared affinity for balding men with dangerous-looking scars. The fellow practically lit up when they approached, and he enticed them with some bogus story involving him and a shoot-out, showing his risky side. Plying them with drinks (and discreetly disposing of them when he wasn't looking), he expressed his fondness for the new arrivals, promised to take them around the most beautiful city in Romania and get them acquainted. Arms draped around their waists, and they stumbled out of the bar with him, ears ringing and feigned drunkenness dogging their steps. Something about it all itched at the back of Natasha's mind; in general, while she found her marks to be somewhat less intelligent in comparison (in comparison to her, that was), they generally needed more schmoozing and flattery to be enticed by a random stranger. Not all of them, of course, but there was a distinct feeling of wrong ringing through her mind. It had all seemed too easy. And, as they made a turn down a wide, abandoned street, she was proven right.

Once off of the main thoroughfare, and in partial darkness, the fellow downright tossed them both away from him. Automatically, Natasha went into a roll, popping up and back onto her feet, defensive stance engaged as she threw off her coat. Wanda, a little greener than she, was shoved into the far wall, her hands spread out before her.

"So where are the rest of them?" he snarled, the rapid change from affability to rage nearly knocking them off course. A secreted blade had been retrieved from an inner pocket, a gun palmed in its holster.

Wanda looked beyond him, wide eyes catching Natasha's for a second. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not as stupid as you were hoping, princess," the fellow spat. Sizing up Wanda with a critical eye, he drawled, "You probably would have gotten away with it, but...we know her face."

He hooked his thumb at Natasha, who did no more than cross her arms over her chest and keep her expression emotionless. The notoriety was becoming more and more of nuisance nowadays; soon, she thought, she would have to eschew undercover assignments entirely.

"So, I'll ask again: where are the rest of the Avengers? Because I'm not gonna make this easy on you," he confessed, taking a lighter out of his pocket and opening it. Striking up a flame, the prearranged signal had several large, burly bodyguards tumbling out of the shadows. His team, his entourage, was not as distant as they had hoped, and he sneered. However, when neither an answer nor a lick of fear had flickered upon the two women's faces, he stalled.

Glancing at Wanda, Natasha shrugged, and her little grin became a feral smile.

"Looks like this won't be a total waste of an evening, then."

The pair moved as one, engaging the first wave of guards. Natasha was in her element, using the extended ladder of a nearby fire escape to swing herself around, her feet smashing into one fellow as he followed. The female Maximoff extended her palms, ringing herself in her auras and encompassing another man, the red mists curling about him and pulling his feet right out from under him. The man Natasha had felled had a comrade attempt to come to his aid, but her legs wrapped around his throat, her momentum carrying her through and giving her smaller body leverage over the bigger one. He, too, smashed to the ground, and the fight became an all-out brawl. Wanda slammed a hand to her ear, dropping her coat and making the call as the Black Widow launched herself into the fray.

Blue and white mists blurred around them, dashed from one foe to the next, red auras working with the timed jabs and punches. A black-swathed creature descended from the next building over, sparks flying from his left hand as he scraped his way down the side and dropped into the ring of assailants. The four worked back to back, Wanda's natural affinity pairing her with her brother, Natasha's fighting coalescing with Barnes's. It wasn't long before the head mercenary, the target, had grown frustrated with his men, their incompetence in the face of the enemy driving him into rage. He joined the fight himself, waiting for the precise opening he needed. The Black Widow had separated from the others for a split second, and he catapulted forward. Catching a glimpse of him out the corner of her eye, she executed a roll, deftly avoiding the thrown knife. Her leg snapped up, dashing his gun from his hands as well. A wail in fury echoed around her, and she rolled again, dodging his punches. Doing that kept him occupied, which had become her ultimate goal. Let the others take care of the guards, and she would distract the guy long enough until they were ready to put him out of commission.

One roll, however, brought her too close, and gave him yet another opening to exploit.

"Right hook!" the cry came from behind her. Before she could even comprehend what was shouted at her, a black blur was shielding her, tumbling over her crouched form after intercepting the hard punch. Barnes was sprawled out on the ground, one hand unconsciously cradling the part of his chest that had been struck. His eyes widened, the only signal she had to tell her the mercenary was winding up for another hit. On instinct, she shoved her legs up, the fanning motion of the appendages shoving her attacker back. Springing fully to her feet, she executed another kick, catching the guy in a very specific and unguarded part of his anatomy. He went down, knees slamming hard into the pavement as he cradled his crotch. Curling her fist, she fired out with a right hook of her own, knocking him clean out. She also added a few punches for good measure, to get the point across when he came out of unconsciousness.

The fight, such as it was, was over, the ring of assailants and their leader down for the count. Off the dip of her chin, the elder Maximoff began to cuff and tie the men up, his sister pulling out her handheld and calling in the local authorities.

"Stupid," she muttered under her breath before extending a hand out to Barnes, helping haul him back onto his feet.

When the police and the paramedics finally arrived, Natasha was nursing a cut on her lip. Gingerly, she walked over to the bus, sitting on the back bumper and shifting her hips so that the minor bruises on her bottom weren't exacerbated. She waited her turn to give the police her statement, Wanda and her brother taking the time to do so first. The shadows around her deepened, the silhouette of Bucky becoming clearer as the cops were occupied with processing the aggressors. He still was under the mandate of little to no publicity; getting caught out now would not be ideal.

Still, he was not about to let her sit there, alone and prodding her lip as though it would magically heal that way.

"I told you," he mentioned, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the lapels of it turned up to hide his face. Striding out to stand in front of her, he caught the eye roll she halfheartedly tried to hide.

"Can it, Barnes," she sniped, even as she noted the genuine concern on his face. Tipping a palm out, she inquired sarcastically, "Am I gonna make it?"

"I think the question is whether that guy will." He cast his gaze towards the police van the fellow had been wrangled into, blood and bruises on his face. Remembering a specific result of the mercenary's attack on her, he stated with a wince, "Or if he'll ever have children after this."

Despite the split in her lip, she smiled, pride effusing her expression as the blood started to dribble.

"Funny," she remarked with an edge of snark. Shaking her head, she recalled something of her own, and she narrowed her eyes up at him. "You still haven't answered my question."

At once he stiffened, knowing exactly which question she'd meant. Chatter from the officers standing by and the inquisitive civilians beyond the perimeter filtered into the silence that followed. The faintest tinge of pink had erupted over his cheekbones, but he otherwise kept his composure. His flesh hand rose from his hip, tentatively brushing at the curve of her jaw. The pads of his fingers were rough, but the graze along her skin was gentle. He bent a little closer, stormy blue eyes scrutinizing her. She held her breath, the barest furrow of her brow the only tell of her inner turmoil. His thumb smeared the trail of red coming from her lip, wiping it away for her. Awkwardly, his jaw quirked, and he cleared his throat.

"You'll make it," he told her, the light touch withdrawn, his thumb wiped along the side of his pants. A sharp gasp came out, disguised as a huffing, derisive laugh on her part.

"Smart-ass," Natasha sassed, head tilting up and shift her fiery hair. The smirk he gave her lost its potency after a few seconds.

"I'm here because...I needed to see this through," he offered, the tone strong. Even so, she could sense a weakness in that argument. His shoulders lifted, his expression tensing as he pulled at the new bruise on his chest. "If I hadn't stayed, it could've ended differently."

"Maybe," she muttered. It might not have ended differently at all. Or, then again, she might have gotten rabbit punched, which would have slowed her down somewhat. There wasn't much she could say about it, other than she was grateful to have Bucky on her side. If, for nothing else, for the fact that she would not be nursing a giant goose egg in the morning and scoring possible brain trauma.

"Also, I didn't make my report this week. Had to let you all know I'm alive somehow," he jested mildly, earning a wry twist of the lips for his efforts. His gaze flicked down to his feet, then back up to her, and he crossed his arms over his chest (another wince marring his face as he did so). "You'd have missed me."

The confidence in his tone nearly overrode the underlying layer, the one that was barely perceptible. However, she picked up on it. It wasn't a question of her missing him, but rather the opposite. Hammering in the vicinity of her chest distracted her for a moment, and she fought hard to squash it all down, regain her bearings.

"Well, yes, because you would've have left before I got here. Would have _just_ missed you," she quipped, the comprehension in her gaze not quite hidden. Not from him. Exhaling sharply out his nose, warmth pooled in his irises, banishing the ice.

"Now who's being funny?" Taking another step closer, a hairsbreadth of air stood between them just as chiming erupted from his pocket. Grumbling under his breath, Bucky pulled out his commissioned handheld, reading the text displayed across the screen. A frown blossomed, and his eyes closed temporarily. His jaw jerked back and forth, grinding his teeth. Natasha's eyebrow spiked, but she said nothing. A deep sigh floated out of him, and he looked down upon her again. "I gotta go. Getting called in."

Ah, the summons to duty. It did seem to be about the time that Fury would be wondering why he hadn't returned yet. There was no excuse for him to delay any longer, and she could not find the tongue to do it for him. Instead, she just nodded sagely, her bright eyes focusing on the scrapes along her knee, her leggings having been torn in the scuffle. The winter wind curled around her, and she shivered a little. With the adrenaline worn off and her sweat cooling, the chill in the air was starting bite at her again. Heaviness suddenly enveloped her, Bucky slinging her abandoned coat back around her and wrapping her up tightly. Gazes locked, and his fingers gave her shoulders a tight, hard squeeze. Not meant to hurt, she realized, the feeling staying with her even as he let go.

"Stay safe, Natalia."

With that, he melted away, disappearing into the dark without another word. If she were free to do so, and not occupied with the medic then treating the cuts on her face, she would have followed after him, demanded a real answer to her question. As it was, she was left with the shadows and the chill of the night, the watch on her wrist ticking as the hours slid closer to dawn.

 **xXxXxXx**

It was starting off slowly, making amends. It wasn't as if Steve could show up at the Tower in Manhattan, banging on the windows and screaming for Tony to accept his apology. No, the world didn't work like that. And, more importantly, neither of the men involved would have accepted that as a viable solution. Instead, Holly kept her musings and inner imaginations to herself, letting her husband figure out how to fix fences with the billionaire, his erstwhile friend. Up until that point, he had merely let Rhodey take the reins, the colonel taking it upon himself to keep Stark informed of the comings and goings on the base, the declassified mission reports, and the like. After the prompting given by his wife ("Your demand," he'd retorted when he was in a better and more receptive mood, and she'd laughed), he started to include other things in the forwards sent via email. Mainly, he sent his private reports. Some editing did have to happen, merely due to Tony's status as an inactive member, but what little he did leave out, he surmised the genius could read between the lines. The tone was kept as clinical, straightforward, but more had been said from Steve to Tony in them than in the last couple of months. Nothing had come of it as of yet, but the emails were not rejected or spat back due to the lack of a functioning link.

It was enough for the seeds to be planted, sown. What they would reap upon harvest time remained to be seen. Two weeks was not enough time to expect much more, particularly not after all that happened, but it was progress, on all sides.

As of the morning of February 14th, the silence continued to reign between the Stark and Rogers households, but the one-sided stand-off was pushed to the back of Holly's mind. St. Valentine's Day fell upon a Sunday, and as such, she had the holiday off. And, after a week spent neck deep in learning a new file sorting program that had been installed her department—which seemed to take a lot of unnecessary steps, in her opinion—she was glad to lose her mind in another endeavor: making cutesy, honest-to-God homemade cookies.

Normally, Holly wasn't much of a baker (she would never earn the title of Suzy Homemaker, not that she was too broken up over that fact), but on occasion she did like to try her hand at a recipe or two. Her mother's sugar cookie recipe was laid out before her, the march of ingredients on the counter top matched against the scrawl. The craving for them had hit hard, and she had to deny herself the treat until she could make it to the store. Unfortunately, that meant she ran into the other Sunday shoppers, which had her in line and on her feet for the register for a considerable length of time. It would be worth it, though, in the end. Damn the heartburn kickback, she was going to have cookies before nightfall.

It was a good thing that her husband had a fondness for sweets as well, she mused as she mixed everything and began to roll out the dough. Well, a fondness for anything that could be digested, was the mental amendment. She was making enough that she reckoned she could feed a small army; it should have been enough to sate the hunger of a super-soldier. (All her estimations on food consumption and amounts had altered over the nearly two years of knowing him.) She just hoped that she would be able to actually get the dough baked and frosted before he got off the call he'd been occupied with. Several calls, actually; Natasha had chimed at an ungodly hour in the middle of the night, reporting the success of a recent mission, and Holly had all but kicked Steve and his damn cell phone out of the bedroom so she cold get some sleep. Either way, his current one had him locked down in conversation in the spare bedroom upstairs, dually occupied with recording its dimensions. She was absolutely fine with letting him plot out the eventual nursery; it gave her the space in case she royally failed with baking and had to destroy the evidence.

Dumping more flour out onto the counter, the cutters on hand were run through before being put to their designed task. She'd snagged them on the way to the register at the store, hearts and a creepy little cupid on hand for the afternoon's events (she eventually just chucked out the cupid, unwilling to eat anything that had been pressed into its malformed shape and the imprint of its weird face). One by one she filled the sheets she'd pulled from storage, two trays in the oven without too much fuss. Her pregnant belly was making it harder for to bend over too far, but she could handle getting things in and out of the oven. During the actual baking time, she attempted to tidy up the space she'd worked in...and when that failed to hold her interest, she went into the living room and selected a much-ignored record to put on the player. Her husband might not have cared for AC/DC, but she certainly did not mind the band. The rockin' beat was enough for her to jam out to as she brought her laptop to the kitchen table, swaying in her seat and mouthing along the words to "Back in Black" as she pulled up a blank document page. A rough draft of a new story outline sat in front of her after several minutes, and she tweaked a couple of the plot points on the list, the hard thinking groove cutting across her forehead as she did so. In between trading out trays, she also managed to do a final check of the short story she'd been working on the last couple of months, firing it off to a couple of online magazines with cover letters in the hopes of some form of publication. Daydreams fired in her mind, and occupied her to the point of missing the chime of the hand-operated timer, and the smell of cooking on the line. A muttered curse shot out of her as she rushed over. She barely managed to save the batch, with only three or four truly inedible and therefore put in the trash. Oh, well. She'd just have to give the extra-brown ones double the icing to make up for it.

The last of the dough was cut out and in the oven when she heard the creak of the floorboards. Busying herself with actively wiping up the leftover flour—and accidentally getting a swipe of it on her face when she scratched an itch—she smirked to herself when the volume on the record player was turned down. The archway between rooms was filled soon enough with her husband's form, bright eyes taking in the domestic little scene and corner of his mouth lifting. Coming around to her, he traced a finger over the flour mark on her cheek, poking it a little when she balled it up and chuckling. His gaze tracked down to the nearly completed project of hers; he'd known she'd been planning on making something when she'd returned from the store, but he'd let it be a surprise. The smell had given the game away, even all the way upstairs, and he had wanted to see how far she had progressed.

"Mm, cookies," Steve crooned, grinning as he inhaled deeply and reached for one. Whatever he had been discussing with Sam on the phone (banal chitchat interspersed with talking shop, as it seemed on the surface, but in actuality was comparing notes on what they both had planned with their companions of choice for the evening), it was done with. Holly rolled her eyes; he might be taking a break from his project, but hers wasn't done. She slapped ineffectually at his fingers, but that did not stop him from making a move again.

"I haven't even got the icing on them yet. Stop grabbing," she reprimanded him, snatching at his wrist. She was too late; the treat was already gone, being chewed up even as she chased him away from the cooling stacks. At once, he retreated to the other side of the counter, fingers scooping up a second and cramming it in with the first.

"Wan' some hel'?" he asked around a mouthful of pilfered cookie. Eyeing him up, she couldn't help but to snicker at his exaggeratedly puffed cheeks and innocent smile. For a moment, she could see an echo of the child he once was, the part unmarred by illness and worry, in his eyes, and she grinned wider. A brief fantasy of what a frustrated Sarah Rogers might have looked like, swatting her son with a spatula and shooing him out of the kitchen while she cooked, with perhaps an equally guilty Bucky Barnes following behind, crossed her mind. A hand strayed absentmindedly down to the swell of her stomach, a flutter within passing to her palm. Chalking it up to gas, she glanced over the stacked confections, internally calculating exactly how long it would take to complete the task on her own. And also, how many Steve would try to eat before they finished. Undeterred by that fact, she made her decision.

"If you've got some time to spare, Nerfherder," she told him, reaching over and swiping away crumbs caught at the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

He swallowed hard, clearing his throat with a cough once all was gone. "Debriefing's not until tomorrow, so I can lend a hand."

It was true; Natasha and Wanda would not be getting in until later that night, and it would be better to discuss their findings when they weren't suffering from jetlag and irritability. At that, she nodded, turning to the oven when the timer went off yet again. Scooping up the dishtowel nearby, she wrapped it around her hand just before opening the door.

"Try to go for the busted cookies first, if you're gonna sneak a snack during," she called to him over her shoulder, catching him out just as he reached for another. Immediately, he jerked his hand back, tucking it into his pocket as she brought out the hot tray to rest on the stove top. Her eyes rolled again, and she giggled under her breath as she snatched out three small bowls, ready to mix and color the whole ones. Pink, white, and red frosting was made swiftly, knives placed in the bowls to prevent crossing colors. Pushing them towards the center of the island counter, she told him to go nuts. One by one, they pulled from the stack, pleased hums and muttered song lyrics hovering in the air between them. Steve's spreading of frosting was more precise and clean, while Holly tended to slap between colors and tried to finish as quick as she could so she could move onto the next one. In spite of her chiding Steve for sneaking treats, she had been holding back from diving in herself, and she wanted to get everything frosted so she could finally indulge.

About halfway through the task, she broke, the freshly-frosted cookie in her hand going straight into her mouth. Sweet, sugary goodness crumbled on her tongue, melted with the white icing, and she groaned in appreciation. Not a master baker, but damn, she was pleased with the final product.

"Hey," Steve crowed at her, eyes crinkling at the corners when he caught her out. "What was it you were saying about eating the broken ones first?"

"Baker's prerogative," she affirmed, swallowing the last of her cookie. Patting her belly, she emphasized, "Pregnant baker's prerogative."

Shaking his head, Steve let his mouth curl up as he frosted another heart, yet again delving into the red. Not having any of it, Holly pulled it away from him, pushing the pink bowl towards him and imploring him to get over his aversion to the color. That earned her a scoff and a mocking display of chest puffing on his part, and she'd laughed. Companionable silence feel for a moment, the click of knives against bowls breaking it up, her iTunes opened and playing directly from the library in the background (Steve had turned off the player in the living room, not willing to suffer through another round of the rock record).

"Noticed you had another one-on-one call yesterday with the agent," he broached after a few more minutes went by. The cookie stacks had dwindled, and they would soon be frosting the last tray. Nodding confirmation of what he'd heard while passing the office the other day, she looked up to see his curious, contemplative expression. "Good news?"

The bubbling mirth that she had been tempering with practicality shot through her. Holly had been hesitant to share what had happened so soon after the fact, but she couldn't hold back any longer. The knife she'd been holding went back into the bowl, and she braced her hands on the counter, meeting his gaze fully.

"The publishing house is sending me a contract." Steve's hands stilled midair, cookie and knife frozen as she spoke. "Once the agent and the one contact in legal that my supervisor has have looked it over—you remember Melanie, right?" She waited for his nod, the glint in his registering understanding, before she continued, "She's got a friend in the department who has agreed to help. Once everything checks out, I'll sign, start work with the editing department...and maybe get my book published within the next year."

Steve's eyes became like saucers at the prospect.

"Even with everything you wanted?" he queried in a low tone, remembering her sticking points that had lost her the last company that had taken an interest in her manuscript. Inwardly, he was crossing his fingers and praying that it would be different that time. Her smile grew wider, and she nodded enthusiastically. The new publishing company had proven to be far more flexible than the last, acceding to her request to use a pseudonym and keeping her identity out of the public's view. They even went so far as to make it part of the contract. The literary agent had given it a cursory scan, and found that it was, indeed, written in, confirming the legitimacy of their promises. It was a real, tangible step forward, and she was so excited to see it start to happen. Setting the knife and cookie down, Steve leaned over the island, frosting smudging the edges of his shirt as he cupped her face and kissed her in congratulations, the news as sweet as the sugar lacing their lips. "That's fantastic!"

The afternoon hours rolled by, with the cookies frosted and some stored in the freezer for later consumption (Holly wondered how long they would really last), and the prospective future plan for her writing supplemented by Steve showing her the sketches he'd been making while talking to Sam. His artistic inclinations allowed him to visualize the possibilities for the baby's room: where the crib would go, notes jotted down about paint colors and designs, and if structural modifications needed to be made. A couple of notes of her own were added, options debated as the sun sank lower in the sky. When dusk had settled, he splayed his hand in the small of her back, guiding her away from the kitchen to the stairs. He implored her to fancy herself up for dinner, and to not come back down until it was ready. Even though they were staying home for the holiday, he stipulated that sweats were not allowed, and she'd stuck her tongue out at him.

Holly did manage to wrangle herself into a dress, one that she hoped didn't make her look like an inflated tube (yes, pregnancy was a beautiful, wonderful part of the cycle of life, but hey, not everything offered in the maternity section of stores made her look gorgeous). Hair was pulled out of her face, and makeup had just finished being applied when he called her back down. Slipping on her nicer sandals, she made her way back downstairs, Steve meeting her at the foot. In the midst of his set-up, he had changed as well, everything for the evening having been secreted in the basement for the moment of truth. Dark eyes ran over his form, and she could practically feel her pupils dilating.

With her husband's tendencies running towards royal blue, white, gray, and navy, it was always something of a visual shock when he chose to wear other colors. The vivid red of his dress shirt was accentuated by the stark black of the vest he'd paired it with. She was jarred from her staring when he proffered his elbow to her, her hand slipping into the crook with aplomb. Leading the way back into the kitchen, he paused on the threshold, letting her cross into the room first. As she did, she paused midway, taking in the sight before her.

"Do you like it? Because it's alright if you don't," Steve stated, scratching at the back of his neck and tipping his chin almost bashfully as he came in behind her. Even two years on, he really didn't think himself at all adept at romantic overtures. Lifting a shoulder, he muttered, "I know it's last minute, but we could always try a restaurant or something for tonight, otherwise."

He watched as Holly's gaze lingered over the table, the good dishes set out with a posy of fake flowers set up in the little vase between them. It was all his handiwork, right down to the candles flickering (two survivors of his impromptu apology from a couple weeks prior) and the reconfigured playlist churning out music in the background. There was even a tablecloth in place. Everything from earlier had been cleaned and put away, the glow at the far end of the room taking all the attention. Their first dance song came on, and her expression turned all the warmer. Sliding her arms around his waist, she stretched up, planting a peck on his cheek.

"No, I like it. I want to have dinner here. That was the plan, after all," she pointed out. It was true; given the state of their lives, specifically his work life, public outings were not easily planned for. The notoriety was dealt with, and generally they could get on in peace with their meal, their outings to a museum or art gallery. But for special days, holidays, it was better for them to abstain from the public eye. Captain America was on display for those, and so was she, best behavior and stiffness invading their time together. She didn't need that, and neither did he. Not all the time. Besides, she was more touched and pleased with his efforts in their own house, in their kitchen, than with a high-end dinner that required decorum lessons and the use of seventeen different forks. "I'm not exactly the kind of girl who needs grand outings or gestures all the time, sweetie."

"I know," he replied affably, though his gaze had latched onto his shoes. About things like that, Holly was fairly laid-back and down to earth. Deep down, he was grateful to have found a girl who would be happy enough sharing popcorn and a walk in the park with him. She didn't demand more, even though with all the insanity that made up a good portion of their shared existence he felt she deserved more. "Just wanted to make sure this was at least a little special for you."

It had to be; it was their first Valentine's Day as a married couple. It had to mean more, or so he had supposed. He wanted it to mean more, as he had told Sam earlier, the other man concurring after a few moments' silence. And he sure as hell didn't want to screw it up, not with her.

"It is," she assured him, using her finger to lift his chin up and letting him see the genuine joy in her face. "Really, you've made it special. I'm happy."

A burst of warmth spread through his chest, and he wrapped her in his embrace, savoring the feel of her body along his.

"Although," Holly murmured after a minute or two had passed in that fashion, "giving me a foot massage later would definitely make the evening extra special."

Steve smirked as he pulled back, chuckling under his breath as he took her hand and led her to the table.

"I'll keep it in mind, doll."

Dinner actually was take-out from a restaurant in Saratoga Springs, fancier fare than either was used to, something Steve had taken time to swing by and get right after finishing up his reports on Friday. It had spent two days chilling in containers in the refrigerator, but when reheated it wasn't terrible in the least. Wine was eschewed for sparkling juice, but Holly did not mind it at all. Retiring to the living room with a plate of the cookies and the leftover bottle of juice, Steve introduced the second part of the evening: a romantic double feature. One movie from his generation and one from hers made up the docket. Knowing that he would prefer things with action and adventure, she was impressed with his gesture. Although, she suspected he was a little taken with Barbara Stanwyck and was willing to put up with it because of that. Either way, she had giggled and gasped her way through _Ball of Fire_ , enchanted with the brunette onscreen and Gary Cooper's response to her as the stuffy academic to her dancing, gangster moll.

"I do have something for you," Steve piped up fifteen minutes after the second movie had started; he'd endured the one female protagonist's speech about the different kinds of love and her heartbreak in silence, and he was looking for a way to avoid the conflict of the second female lead's fall-out with her boyfriend. Thus distracted, Holly's eyes gleamed in excitement, a single nod prompting him to retrieve the present he had for her from its hiding place in the basement. Returning with a plain, red gift bag, he sat down beside her and held it out, his half-grin stretching his lips. "A _small_ gesture."

She giggled at his emphasis, shooting him a small wink as she accepted the bag. "Well, thank you."

Tearing through the tissue paper, Holly inhaled sharply as she removed the unwrapped cloth from the bottom. Shaking it out, she could see it was an infinity scarf, silky and smooth in her grip. It was the color of parchment paper and was decorated liberally with scrawled lines. Reading closely, she recognized them to be lines from _Romeo and Juliet_. Even though she had grown to prefer other works by Shakespeare, she did appreciate the romantic portions of the text (regardless of the cynical analysis her brain had taken when she was beyond her schoolgirl days and understood how messed up the tragedy truly was).

"It's so pretty, Steve," she breathed, at once wrapping the scarf around her neck. It didn't quite go with her dress, but she did not care. He seemed to sit up a little straighter, pleased as punch to have done so well. His palm slid over her hair, smoothing it out of her face as he leaned towards her. His questing lips were stopped by the three fingers pressing against them. Pouting comically, he couldn't hold it long while she laughed. Tapping once, she announced, "I got you something, too. Hold on."

At once, she sprang off the cushions and ran up the stairs. Patiently, he waited on the sofa, half an ear tuned to the shuffles and grunts coming from the second floor, the other half listening as the characters onscreen began to arrange swapping houses for Christmas (he probably would have been better to choose a movie more themed to the current holiday, but it still suited the purpose, in any case). Soon enough, she was clattering back down, a rectangular object wrapped in tissue paper and held out to him over the back of the couch. Taking it, he tore through the tissue roughly, pads running over leather as the gift was revealed. Holly took her seat again as he examined it closely. It was a sketchbook cover, dark brown and supple. Wads of papers had been tucked in to give it shape, and he shook those out onto the floor, careful not to dislodge the new pencils latched into the inner flap. His delighted grin took on a questioning air as he turned it over, spotting the coordinates emblazoned in the lower corner.

Spying Steve's confusion, she hastened to explain, "It's the coordinates of where we first met. Well, even though we technically met in the hospital, I thought the ones for the park would be more—"

That time, he did get his kiss, stealing it before she could stop him. He felt the upward curve of her lips, and she hummed sweetly into his mouth.

"I love it," he murmured as they broke apart. Casting a look down, he caught her gaze after a second, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "You want that foot rub now?"

"Yes, please," she responded happily, swinging her legs up into his lap without further ado. Snorting, he placed his new cover on the arm of the couch, cracking his fingers in preparation. Her sandals were dropped to the floor, and his hands began to work over her skin. Pressure was applied, and it was both heavenly and downright sinful. A moan coursed out of her throat, and her head fell back as he rotated her ankles one by one, moving up to her calves. "Oh, you are so getting a back massage as a thank-you after this."

His fingers halted, and she looked up in time to see the expression on his face. It was one part pleasure to two parts smolder, a look that made fire race through her veins and shivers run down her spine. There was a lot of expectation to be had in that little exclamation, apparently, and he was ready to seize on it.

"No fooling?" he asked her, voice deepening and his mind suddenly very intent on her answer. Off her serious and quickly-given nod, he blew out a low whistle. "Hot dog."

She snickered at that, the intensity of the moment lightened by the slip into his generation's vernacular.

"Dork," she pronounced, no real venom in it. If anything, it simply held promise, and their resulting smiles held even more as they looked at one another.

 _First St. Valentine's Day as a married couple—mission successful._

* * *

 **A/N:** As always, a lot going on here...more developments with Bucky and Nat, which is always fun for me. And of course, had to sneak in some Pietro, because why not?

Don't ask Wanda about October 12th, 2009. She doesn't want to talk about it, and it's best not to push.

...You guys ever wonder if I'm perhaps lulling you all into a false sense of security with all the cutesy stuff I write for this story?...Now, are you enjoying the second-guessing I just made you experience because I'm two parts sinister to one part adorable? :-P

In case anyone was wondering, Holly and Steve's first dance song for their wedding (and the top song on the playlist that was put together for V-Day) is "You and I" by Michael Bublé. He's kind of the middle ground artist for them, and the song is lovely. Give it a listen sometime if you are so inclined.

Cutting it down to the wire yet again; thanks for being so patient with me, folks!

Next chapter, we get to see a little bit of Cap back out in the field again...and Holly will be at twenty weeks. Prime...sex determination...time. Is Baby Rogers a boy or girl? You get one more week to speculate. It also might be a little delayed, as I will be attending a family function this weekend and may not have the time to work on the chapter. So be prepared for that!

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references in the text (AC/DC and their song "Back in Black," Nirvana, Pearl Jam, _The Wizard of Oz,_ _Star Wars, Ball of Fire, The Holiday, Romeo and Juliet_ , Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

 **EDIT:** I have written a new two-shot story involving Steve and Holly. It is entitled, "Still of the Night," and can be found in the My Stories tab on my page. Word of caution: it's not sunshine and rainbows. Check it out if you feel so inclined.


	18. Chapter 18

Tipping her head back against the wall, Holly Rogers exhaled sharply. Another day, another doctor's appointment, she was musing silently, her fingers drumming on the arms of the visitor's chair she was sitting in. In reality, it had been about three weeks since her last visit, but it had gotten to the point that she felt as though she were in the hospital every other day, visits to Saratoga Springs a near constant worked in between filing, phone calls, and discussion of the future with her husband. So many things had yet to be decided, worked on, and a lot of them had to wait until after that particular appointment. She'd spoken with her supervisor, was given that Thursday to work from home to look over transcripts after she'd finished with the examination. Inwardly, she was starting to lament leaving the work behind. She would even prefer fielding a call from the publisher at that point, so long as it was something to do. Boredom was setting in, her phone holding no appeal and her book already finished; she wished Steve was there to distract her, or at the very least, was there and bored with her. Conferences had pulled him away, taken him out of state, and so she was left to her own devices while waiting on the doctor. Idly, she rubbed at the swell of her belly, her foot beginning to tap impatiently.

Waiting sucked. It was a thought that bared repeating in her mind, her eyes closing briefly. Within a few minutes, though, the door to the exam room swung open, a whirl of white lab coat and green scrubs proffering a clipped chart rushing by her. Taking a seat on the rolling stool by the counter, she managed a weak smile for the arrival, glad to finally get started as the doctor's pen scratched quickly against the nearest notepad.

"Hello, Holly," Carol Watson greeted her, looking up from the chart with a wide grin. Her light brown hair was combed back, and her dark blue gaze glittered despite the early hour. Gesturing with her pen to her patient, she inquired, "How are we doing today?"

The younger woman barely restrained herself from shooting her a look, a frown threatening to bloom.

 _'My back hurts, I haven't had coffee in fourteen weeks, and you used the irritating collective 'we' instead of 'you.' Plus, I gotta pee like a rushin' race horse, like always,'_ Holly growled internally, scrubbing her face with her hands. _'I'm practically par for the friggin' course.'_

"I'm fine, thanks," she answered mechanically, sitting up straighter and pushing the slight wave of negativity back. Catching the incline of Carol's eyebrow at the lack of feeling in her voice and face, she cupped a hand in the air. "I mean, well, about as good as can be expected, I guess."

The eyebrow arched higher, but the doctor's smile did not waver.

"You sure?"

For a moment, Holly chewed her lip, debating inwardly about whether or not she should say anything. It was the duty of the doctor to keep up with the patient's health, all forms of it, especially when another life was involved. However, she wasn't sure it was such a good idea to reopen the can of worms that was sitting in the back corner of her mind. After another minute or two, she sighed deeply, deciding to just let it spill. It was bubbling inside her, and needed to get out; she may as well tell the person who had at least a professional interest in her well-being. Fiddling with the ends of her sleeves, she began to speak.

"It's not a physical thing, but it is affecting me. Word's gotten around by now, and...some people are just mean. Not everybody, not the people close to us, but...well, it's not particularly pleasant to hear or read about how some think that you got knocked up because it was the only way to keep your husband around. Among other things."

Work was an interesting experience for her, since she had become visibly pregnant and having switched to clothing that made it obvious. In her department, she was treated relatively normally. Sure, Melanie had gushed a bit, touching the developing swell without permission and sharing about how she'd been so cramped and bloated when she was carrying her son, and Todd had been nice enough to _not_ touch her belly when he congratulated her officially. Curious onlookers had their glimpses, their whispers, but the people in her immediate vicinity were smart enough to keep their speculations and opinions to themselves until she was out of range. Gossip had mixed and ran around her, with some agents guessing at how far along she was, and others wondering if a particular position was needed to conceive a super-soldier's baby safely. The hum around her was neutral, more often on the side of positive.

The public, however, was another matter.

Roughly a week beforehand, she'd been paging through a magazine in the check-out line at the store, killing time as the person in front her unloaded two carts' worth of groceries onto the belt. Steve had been practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with impatience beside her, the bill of his cap tugged lower and lower as they waited. A flick of the page, and there it was, clear as day: a photo of her out in New York a month prior, her coat opened after getting overheated in one of the bridal stores, Sarah facing towards her as they walked down the street. The bump was out for anyone to see, and someone had caught it. Mutely, with a mouth full of sawdust, she showed it to her husband, whose eyes had narrowed and jaw had set upon spying the byline. ("'Looks like a little patriot is ready to march out?' Ridiculous," he'd groused, the cashier glancing at them in sympathy when he'd rolled his eyes. She'd known them as regulars to the store, and commiserated with them over the rag's silliness.) They'd gotten out of there swiftly, but the knowledge that their little insulated bubble had, indeed, popped, sat on Holly's mind. It was entirely different when the pregnancy was up for speculation on a national level, let alone beyond that. She stamped down on her curiosity of what the public thought about it for several days. Once Steve was out the door and on his way to the helicarrier to confer with Fury about another mission the previous morning, she broke. And ten minutes after scouring websites dedicated to the team—there actually was one designated to her marriage to Captain America, specifically—she had started to wish she'd just kept herself in the dark.

Although it generally seemed that the Avengers had decent fans, bad seeds would crop up from time to time. Usually they posted anonymously on a public message board; they were strongly against anybody who threatened the dynamic of the team, who saw non-members as interlopers who distracted them from being nothing more than fighting machines. It wasn't just her who had received hate over the years, she'd noted as she scrolled back to posts that were many months old. Quite a few people had issues with Pepper Potts, with Jane Foster, and even against Bruce's old flame (despite the fact that she'd had nothing to do with him for years by that point). If anybody had any idea that Laura Barton existed outside their circle, she did not doubt they'd spew vitriol about her, too. Either way, it left her sick to her stomach and actually steering clear of the Internet for the remainder of the day; she had never been gladder of getting lost in the stacks at work, letting herself be distracted with missions and works from well before her time.

Carol tutted under her breath, shaking her head in sympathy. "Ouch. That's harsh. Especially when it was done for tax purposes, right?"

The jovial tone of the joke made Holly's mouth lift a bit at the corner, and she shrugged a shoulder.

"I know I shouldn't let it bother me, but...they're talking about the baby, too, not just me," she said, a flare rising and flooding her veins as she recalled the hateful things that were said. Shameful, hurtful things were spoken against her unborn child, and it made her blood boil to contemplate it. Amidst the support, the dark comments bled through, sticking hard in her mind. The baby had been called an excuse, a mistake, a selfish imposition made upon the country's greatest hero by some. It was the stuff said about a child that was literally unable to do anything but grow in her womb that drove her up the wall. Her breaths became shallow and her heart hammered faster in her chest. One hand was spread over her belly, shielding it from the evil just beyond it, and the other had curled into a tight fist. The thumb was not tucked in, the two lead fingers had their knuckles jutting out a little further than the others, and she looked like she was about ready to fire a punch off straight from the shoulder—just as she had been taught.

"That's _my_ baby they're talking about," Holly nearly growled, the fist tightening and her face flushing red. Watson, having observed the harsh shift, was on her feet as the younger woman grumbled, "Those arrogant motherf—"

"Hang on, Mommy," the doctor cut her off, her calm and even tone cutting through the spike of rage that had overtaken her patient. Gently, she reached out, taking up the fist from Holly's lap and carefully patting it. The soothing gesture made her uncurl her fingers, drew her out of her angry thoughts and slowed her breathing. Digging around in one of the pockets of her lab coat, she pulled out one of the suckers she had liberated from the jar in the pediatrics ward. She pressed the stick into her patient's palm with a wink. "I can't let you go around punching out people, but at least you can have sugar. Just a little, though."

Cutting her gaze down to the treat in her hand, Holly's face took on a sheepish cast, the mottled red of her anger slowly bleeding out of her cheeks. Unwrapping the sucker, she immediately stuck it in her mouth without any regard given to the flavor of it. The coat of grape on her tongue brought her down a bit more, and she sagged in her chair.

"Sorry," she apologized after a minute or two, the stick of the sucker rolled between her fingers as she spoke. "Normally, I try not to pay any mind to that crap, but, well, they got me on a good day. Or bad day, I suppose."

They'd caught her at a vulnerable moment, without anyone nearby to support her. She had opened herself up to cyber ridicule when she was on her own. Really, she only had herself to blame for it, she privately opined, and she stuck the grape confection back into her mouth. A palm began to rub her shoulder, Carol's well-meant ministrations going a ways to calm her further.

"It happens," the older woman intoned, understanding in her voice. Though not all her patients had notoriety on a major scale, she had seen them through some major trials of heartache and diffidence very similar to Holly's. In the end, the outer world's judgment would come to nothing. "All that matters is if you, and your baby, are healthy. Let other people whine and scream into the wind."

Once, twice, she blinked, and then she glanced at the doctor, nodding.

"All right, then."

Carol smiled genuinely at her, motioning for her to stand and walk over to the scale then. Climbing on, her weight was measured, with it appearing to be in a good range for that point of the pregnancy. After blood pressure was taken (a little high, but the doctor chalked that up to the residual distress from earlier), she called for a sample cup to be brought it, but it was relegated to the counter for the time being.

"It's about that time," she announced, pleased to see the moroseness in the younger woman's face change to nervous excitement. Leading the way out of the examination room, she brought the expectant mother down the hall to another small room wherein the ultrasound set-up resided. Closing the door behind them, she gestured for Holly to make her way over to it all, the technician in the room already fetching the gel for them. "Up on the table, Mrs. Rogers."

Holly did as she was instructed, tossing the last of her sucker into the trash can by the door before sidling up to the examination table. Maneuvering herself onto it, she leaned back against its slight incline, hiking up the hem of her loose shirt so that the (freezing cold) gel could be spread. The transducer slid over the coating as the machine hummed to life, the doctor dimming the lights and leaving them all in a state of quiet. The screen was partially turned away, the technician concentrating hard on locating the baby and assessing its condition. Minutes passed, the whumping sounds of the machine echoing around them, and then Carol stepped up to her side, asked if she wanted to know about the gender. It seemed that the little one was actually cooperating, unknowingly on full display for them. Nerves snapping, Holly eagerly nodded, hands clenching into the fabric of her shirt as the screen was turned back to her. Squinting, she followed the doctor's finger as it pointed, and the tiniest gasp escaped her lips. She knew, she knew what she was looking at, and she smiled broadly.

Holly just wished Steve could have been there to see it.

"You can narrow down paint colors for the baby's room now," Carol remarked blithely, making notes on the nearby chart and sharing in the apparent joy in her patient's face. Quickly, she requested that the technician begin to print off copies of the sonogram, at least one of which being of the newer, 3-D models.

"Yeah, yeah we can," the younger woman concurred, the barest hint of water at the corner of her eyes. It was ignored, pushed back as she made a request of her own. "Can I get another one for Steve, please?"

"Certainly," was the answer, everything printed off as had been required. Soon enough, towels were swiped at her stomach, clearing it of the fluid so she could proceed to finish her appointment. A final sample was submitted, and Doctor Watson was confident in the progress of both mother and child. Both healthy, both happy, and that was what mattered. Well, happy enough, the younger woman had amended silently, definitely happier than she had been earlier. Her mind was churning, determined to find a way to tell her husband the news. Lighting upon an idea, she found herself speeding across town to one of the few specialty stores, a little extra time taken to make it come to fruition.

 **xXxXxXx**

Another day, another ill-conceived battle between the forces of good and evil. Or, at least, that was Sam Wilson's thought as he swooped down from the sky, his wings retracting as he passed between a couple of concrete pillars. The scan of his goggles showed the red-hot forms of combatants through the thick flooring of the parking ramp, and he shifted quickly to fly down the descending ramp towards them. The team had been at it for a good amount of time, fending off and cornering the enemy.

It had started as a simple meeting, the team heading up to the helicarrier to do an actual, physical check-in with the agents posted there. Fury had been intent on going over several issues, all of which were of a sensitive nature. Midway through the discussions, a call had come in, a representative from Germany crowing frantically over the line. Evidently, a maximum-security prison was undergoing a riot, and several of the inmates were escaping. Generally, such an occurrence would have been handled by police and other authorities in the country, but it wasn't as simple as that. One of the missing inmates, it seemed, was a Doctor Jensen. Steve and Natasha had shared a desperate glance at that news; the woman in question had once been in charge of an outfit of HYDRA, her designs utilized to advance the weaponry of the broken organization. With her at large, she was liable to obtain a good-sized following, given her brilliance and her previous position in the organization hierarchy. Without Strucker or his son to take up the mantle, let along Doctor List, she stood as a viable candidate as the new, titular head. It would be best for them to help assist in locking down the facility, and tracking her down as swiftly as possible. At once, the team suited up and rolled out, dropping down in the heart of Berlin where a good portion of escaped prisoners had managed to commandeer a parking ramp. The attendants had long since hightailed it out of there, leaving the structure to the whims of the interlopers.

The Avengers were not about to have that. Particularly as the intel had placed Jensen in the ramps vicinity.

It definitely wasn't how he wanted to spend his Friday morning (afternoon, in Germany), Sam had grumbled inwardly as they spread out. Nothing for it, he surmised, swooping around a row of parked vehicles in time to see his friend and leader, Steve, being bodily hurled into the side of a truck by several of the escapees. Quickly, he slammed into one of the fellows, a domino effect toppling them and giving the captain time to rise from the ground. As one, the two men worked together, fighting back to back against the ring of criminals. They were burly, strong fellows hardened by years on the inside, armed with their strength and whatever they could tear off the nearby vehicles. Spinning and vaulting, Sam performed an aerial turn, legs fanning out as his wings sprang from the pack. Steve was occupied with ground sweeps, his shield rebounding off a couple of the guys before getting caught in a concrete pylon. When several of the fellow started to advance on him, bearing jagged edges of cut glass from broken windows, the Falcon landed, his spring-loaded pistols freed from their holsters and lodging firmly in his hands. They were undeterred by the spray of bullets that followed, and continued to take swings and jabs.

Their stamina, however, was no match for that of a super-soldier, Steve springing and avoiding them with better ease. Lucky hooks and kicks had landed on him, and one of the fellows had curled an arm around his neck, his other hand positioned and prepared to drive a wedge of glass into the eye-hole of the captain's helmet. Shooting a glance to Sam, Steve snapped the guy's wrist, ducking down in time for his friend to land a firm kick to the fellow's throat. One by one, the enemy was dropping around them, their fight exhausted before too much longer. Soon, the ring of criminals became a grounded ring of unconscious men, having met their fate under the fists of the Avengers. With a final punch crashing into the last guy's jaw, Sam shifted his stance, his fingers flexing to remove the sting of the hit from them. Lifting his goggles, he began to remove the standard zip-ties from one of his belt pouches, getting straight to work as the captain ran over to the far wall. Plucking the shield from its embedded spot, he swung it onto his back harness, the electromagnetic pads locking it securely into place. One hand lifted superfluously to his ear, the gesture meant to signal his intent of tapping into the common comm-line. His boots rang in the space of the ramp as he made his way over to Wilson, ready to aid him in his endeavor.

"Everything locked down yet?" Rogers asked, command in his voice.

"It's all good out here, Cap," was the answer, the War Machine cutting a swatch against the sky as he performed a final flyby. Their compatriots had already subdued the remaining ground assailants, he reported, with the Black Widow cuffing the captured and the Scarlet Witch using her auras to hold any potential escapees in place.

"Alright, call it in," the captain ordered, a fast glance shot over to Sam. Jerking his chin up, he murmured, "We'll meet you outside."

A sudden gasp rattled over the line, with Rhodey immediately shouting down it. A rogue van had broken free of the imposed barriers on the street level, speeding away from the ramp with all haste. As a number of escaped criminals had yet to be accounted for, including Jensen, it could be assumed that she was fleeing the scene at that moment. The roar of rockets tore through the air, the colonel in hot pursuit of it. Wilson stood, poised and at the ready, in case he was commanded to follow as well. Looking for a command, he let his shoulders slump slightly when Steve shook his head. He was needed there, needed to help with rounding up the detainees. Rhodey would follow as far as he could, and report in when he had something. The ringing and screaming of sirens eventually pervaded the air, and the two men got down to work, joining their female teammates once the final criminal was trussed up and brought downstairs.

Gratitude was impressed upon the remaining Avengers as the German police force broke through the barrier, with Steve roughly translating for the benefit of those who did not understand the quickly garbled language. A crackling came over the comms within twenty minutes, Rhodey's weary voice alerting them to the fact that the van had indeed gotten out of his range. He gotten a little too close, having landed squarely on it as he ducked beneath an overhang. As a result, the vehicle picked up speed, dangerously cutting corners and throwing him off at the first possible opportunity. He did, however, manage to secure a tracking device to the hull of it, so SHIELD could monitor its movements and find out where Jensen could end up next. Their intervention as far Germany was concerned, was over for the day, and they were asked (politely, of course) to vacate and return back to the helicarrier for a debriefing session. Cutting into their lines, Fury intimated that his agents would pick up the lost thread from there.

"You were cutting it pretty close there, Steve," Sam murmured, an ice pack placed at his elbow as he sat beside his leader. The quinjet that had dropped them off had been waiting for them just beyond the city's limits, ready to bear them away at a moment's notice. The worst injuries of the lot were allocated to Rhodey, with a major headache and large bruises splayed across his bodies. The others were in various states of injury, with Steve appearing to have gotten a good share of bruising from his bout with the truck.

The captain leaned his head back against the bulkhead of the jet, frowning. "I had it under control."

"Really?" Wilson scoffed aloud at that. Canting his head to the right, he muttered, "That landing didn't look particularly smooth."

Steve smirked at him, little levity in the expression. "Well, you can't expect being thrown into a car to feel like sinking into cotton fluff."

"True, but dude, you've got to start taking better care of yourself. Not just for your sake," Wilson reminded him, a tad acerbically.

The blue of his friend's irises went stormy as he shot him a dark look. He met the gaze with one of his own, not allowing himself to even entertain the thought of being cowed.

"Trust me, I could've been much more reckless," the captain barked back, his jaw quirking as he directed his attention to the far wall. Silence passed between them, the cycling of the jet's engines a distant rumble through the walls. Wanda and Natasha's low conference on the far side of the transport wound along in the background, accompanied by Rhodey's soft snores as he napped. Fingers fisted in his lap, the fingerless gauntlets taut around the skin as he did so. Another minute, then two, and Steve turned back to him again. The storm had not subsided, but the intensity of it had lessened. Inclining his head, he told him, "Look, I know, Sam, okay? I do, believe me. But this is my job. I can't expect the enemy to go easy on me just because...and I'm not going to hold back and not give it my all."

Sam held back a groan. He wasn't implying that he should hold back at all, and he was going to set the record straight on that.

"I get it, man. It's just...there's more at stake" the Falcon reminded him, both of them exhaling sharply out their noses. Glancing around, he pitched his voice a little lower. "She's, what, about halfway through it now? Things are going to start escalating from here."

Now that Holly's pregnancy was publicly known, the world's attention had shifted yet again, sizing them up in the cross-hairs. It would only take one, small, wrong move, and the worst could happen in an instant. He wasn't about to tell his leader how to do his job; honestly, Sam really didn't feel he had the right to. But going at it with the same gusto was not what was called for. It all had the potential to get worse from that point on, and they all would need to be on their guard.

With a forced grin, Sam managed to joke, "None of us want to be the one to face Holly's wrath if the father of her kid goes down, you know?"

Another swift look met his, and the captain dipped his chin with a slight smile.

"I hear ya. And I understand," he reiterated, unclasping the strap of his helmet. Removing it, he let it drop on the bench beside him before leaning forward, his elbows going to rest on his knees. Rubbing his fingers together, he confided, "I've got a couple ideas in mind; I'm not just resting on my laurels, here. Just waiting for the right time."

His friend spotted the clarity in his face, the utter lack of dissembling in his posture, and he relaxed a bit. That was good to hear, the captain having the preliminaries of a plan. What it was remained to be seen, but it would ultimately be better than continuing as before, as if nothing could go wrong.

It very well could, and he didn't want that for any of them.

"Provided nothing happens in between then and now," he couldn't help but spout, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling of the jet and repositioning his icepack delicately.

"Right," Steve agreed, a wince playing over his features. Shifting in his seat, he posited, "On the positive side, at least my spine wasn't busted."

Sam snorted at that, giving him a dry smirk. "Which is surprising, given how often you do land on vehicles and such."

Processing of the detained criminals took another three hours, and it was already late in the afternoon by the time the team departed from the helicarrier. The captain had left Fury with the assurances that the words about Jensen's disappearance would go no further than them, and that the secondary team would keep an eye open on their side of the world in case she did happen to make a blip on the radar. Given the round-up brought in by the team, the director did not have much to complain about, and he let them go with few qualms (not to say he didn't have any; he just chose to air those to his fellow director at the home base, Maria radioing in and holding them all responsible for the tension headache she now had). A short message had been left for Bucky as well, asking him to call in after his current mission ended. Natasha had insisted it be left, and with a spiked eyebrow, Steve had followed through with her request.

The last streaks of sunset painted the sky when the quinjet bearing the team landed back at the base. They all trooped from its confines down to the uniform storage area, each of them more than ready to shed their armor and rest for the night. Some, like Wanda and the Vision, spoke about a new recipe they wanted to try out for dinner that night, and Rhodey departed to catch up with some colleagues who happened to be in the area for the night. For his part, Steve was quick to change into his civilian clothes, eager to make the last leg of the journey home as he proceeded straight down to the garage. It had been a long, (nearly) three days, and he was just ready to be in his house, and sleep in his bed with his wife.

Getting to his truck and opening the driver's side door, Steve blew out a short sigh. Tossing his backpack over onto the passenger seat, he stopped short of getting his shield hooked onto the seat harness. His eyes were riveted to the blue cloth in the center of his seat. It was perched atop a folded piece of paper, neither of which had been there when he'd gone on mission. Narrowing his eyes on the surprise offering, he carefully situated his shield before reaching for the small bundle. Gingerly, he scooped up the cloth, his thumb rubbing over it. The soft article unfolded in his grip, an end of it showing yellow piping along a collar and around the edge of a tiny sleeve. A onesie, his brain supplied the word, a little romper like the ones Holly had looked at online (like the silly one her friend Sarah had sent home with her). The grin on his face overcame the frown; Holly must have left it for him to find, using the spare key to get into the vehicle while he was gone. Realizing that he was holding it backward, he turned it over, more piping revealed at the bottom by the snaps. When he was looking at it fully, he seemed to lose his breath, his heart pumping erratically.

There, ironed on the center of the chest area, were three simple words: Daddy's Little Man.

For several long moments, all he could hear was the beat of his pulse in his ears, and the rush of air flooding his lungs as each word hit home. The wavering grin grew into a wide beam, his free hand snatching at the paper still on the seat. Grabbing it, he shakily opened it at the fold, revealing the ultrasound picture printed onto it. It was one of the 3-D model sonograms, which both fascinated and unnerved him. It was all the clearer to see the little head, arms, and the definite proof of his son's sex on the page. An adhesive note was attached to it, telling him that yes, it was true, in Holly's looping handwriting.

A son. Their son.

It was time to go home. Right then.

It took Steve braking hard to not hit a deer sprinting across the road for him to realize he was driving. At some point, he had put the sonogram picture in his pocket, and he had least buckled his seatbelt, but he was indeed driving, tearing down the back roads of upstate New York at a frightening speed. Nerves and panic swelled inside of him as his brain caught up to his actions, but as the deer had made it to the other side unscathed, he caught his breath and pressed on the accelerator again, determined to get back to his house before it was much later. He'd missed out on the process of discovery, but now that he knew, really knew, he wanted to be with his wife, be at home with her and their child. It wasn't long at all before he was tapping through the dashboard commands, the garage door sliding up as he pulled into the outbuilding. And in mere seconds, his heavy footfall was reverberating across the floorboards, the stairs flying under his feet as he searched for her, for them.

Holly was in the soon-to-be nursery, sitting on the floor and unlocking a corner of the adjustable frame of the spare bed. The mattress was pushed up against one wall (his handiwork, done in preparation days ago), along with the box spring, and the sheets were in the closet. The bed would be swapped with Bucky's in the basement, giving him a bigger option were he to stay in the house again, while the other would go into the storage area beyond the laundry room. Once the gender of the baby was discovered, they had determined they would start actual work on the room, and evidently that night was a good night to begin. As she was occupied with her task, she did not notice him in the door, but she had heard him storming across the first floor and up the stairwell. A tiny smile was on her lips, unconsciously reflecting his own. Eventually, she succeeded in unlocking the corner piece, a triumphant crow coursing out of her throat as she did so. Looking up and catching sight of Steve in the doorway, she jumped a little, a breathless little giggle echoing around her as she rose up onto her knees.

"You got home quick," she remarked, the glint in her brown eyes growing as he crossed the threshold. His smile was still wide, the onesie still in his palm, the ultrasound picture tucked into his pocket. Snickering, she pointed at the little piece of baby clothing. "Pretty good incentive, right?"

It had to have been, given how the truck had roared up the driveway. And how he'd run straight into the house, without his bag or his shield, after parking (he never liked to leave either item downstairs, if he could help it, when he returned home). If she had known he would react in such a way, she would have commanded that the door remained unlocked, so he wouldn't have the digital keypad outside impeding him. As it was, he had come back, and he stepped over the bars of the frame, scooping her up and holding her as tight as he dared. Her toes scrabbled to find purchase on the floor when he hoisted her, and for a moment she panicked, but he had her back on her feet in seconds flat. Fingers wound into her hair, tipping her head back so that his kiss could land solidly on her mouth. It wasn't terribly gentle, but there was a layer of sweetness to his deep caresses, all of which she met stroke for stroke. Soon enough, the embraces slowed, the barest fraction of space coming between them as they stopped, her arms barely loosening around his neck as they stood there.

"God, I love you," he breathed against her lips, another peck dropped before he pulled back. Bright eyes darted from her face down to his hand as he brought it between them, another wave of joy overtaking him as they both stared at the little romper. The hand in her hair slid down to the nape of her neck, the pads gently caressing the skin. Taking another deep inhale, he murmured, "A boy, we're gonna have a little boy."

"Yep," she confirmed, patting the swell tenderly. "I'm preparing to be outnumbered by two rambunctious men."

"Rambunctious," he repeated, eyebrow spiking even as he grinned down at her. "Think that's an appropriate descriptor?"

Her own eyebrows rose, and she smirked. "Would you prefer 'trouble-maker?' Frankly, that might apply better."

Steve tilted his chin up, debating the point mentally before nodding once.

"Yeah, 'rambunctious' sounds better in comparison."

The pair got to work, finishing with dismantling the frame a few short minutes. The rest of the task would be completed the next day, Saturday, before Steve would have to go in and file his reports. In the time it took him to place the onesie and ultrasound picture in a safe place, and fetch his bag and shield out of the truck, Holly had reheated some leftovers, the couple forgoing eating at the table in favor of sinking into the couch and enjoying their repast while watching television. It was when they were halfway through one of the saved episodes on the box when he hissed, arching his back slightly to alleviate the bruising cropping up along his back. Though he healed at a rapid rate, he still was healing, and the pain that had been suppressed from the moment he left the base was finally being acknowledged. Finishing their food as swiftly as possible, it took little persuasion on Holly's part to bring him upstairs, stripping himself to the waist and perching on the edge of the bed while she fetched up bruise cream that was a permanent part of their private first aid kit. As they worked in tandem to get the treatment on his skin (her kneeling behind him on the bed to work on his back, and him attending to his front), he caught a glimpse of the onesie out the corner of his eye, and his wince turned back into a grin. There was still so much to do, he posited, so much to get ready for. With her past the danger the first trimester posed—inwardly, she blessed him for actually reading the pregnancy books she'd found, no matter how graphic they got—and with their boy definitely being a boy, the options were narrowed down for everything. They could get started the next day, even; his reports could just as easily be typed up and mailed in from home, once they'd taken a look around Albany. There had to be some specialty stores there, and it was less likely they would be bothered in a town where they still held a fair amount of anonymity. Holly was touched by his enthusiasm, but a gnawing feeling at the back of her mind was pushing to the fore as he spoke, and soon enough, she had to give it voice or be driven crazy by it.

"Not gonna lie, Steve, I wasn't quite expecting such a reaction from you over this. You were way more subdued when you found out that I was preggers in the first place." A slight huff shot out of his mouth, and she snickered to herself. Whether it was due to her observation or to her use of the juvenile reference to her condition, she wasn't sure, but it amused her either way. Dipping her finger back into the bruise cream, she proceeded to start spreading it on the large splotch spanning across the middle of his back. "Probably would go so far as to say you were shocked."

"I did kiss you then, as well," he pointed out jovially, shooting her a smirk over his shoulder. He took up a dab of the cream on his middle finger, it disappearing around his front and being applied to a nasty one on his abdomen. Despite the wincing, his eyes were still bright. "I was excited, once the...shock, wore off. Still am."

Sure, there was still a healthy layer of fear and uncertainty beneath all of it, and his own inadequacies stacking up in his head as the day drew ever closer, but for the most part, he _was_ excited. The novelty of actually being a parent, a father, had not worn off, and he was glad to hang onto the feeling for as long as he could.

"Obviously," Holly observed wryly. Her smile started to falter as another, less pleasant thought tore through her mind. Slowing her ministrations, her hands fell into her lap and she sat back. At the prolonged quiet, Steve turned around, hooking one leg up onto the mattress and meeting her gaze. Fidgeting with her fingers for a moment, she glanced up at him, nearly whispering, "Is it because he's a boy?"

Steve's brow furrowed at that. He'd heard stories, even back in the day, of some men only wanting boys, only wanting those who could carry on their legacies and the family name. There were some who still only wanted sons nowadays, as well. Personally, he'd thought that to be a foolish mindset. In total honesty, the fact that he could have any child, boy or girl, was nothing short of a rarity in his life, was nearly a miracle. He couldn't let her think he felt otherwise, even though he knew she knew him better than that.

"No," he promised sincerely, his hand coming down to rest upon her knee. Squeezing it slightly, he affirmed, "I would've been just as happy with a little girl. I swear."

Her tremulous grin returned, and she laid her hand over his. That question answered, she still wanted to hear the rest of it.

"So, what then?"

He went still, very still, and quiet, which warned Holly about the serious consideration he was giving the question. Several swipes of her thumb over his skin had to pass before he unlocked his jaw, a contemplative look gracing his face as he formed a reply.

"It's because...I got to know, I guess," he confessed carefully. Off her inquisitive stare, he hastened to elaborate. "My dad never knew whether Mom was gonna have a boy or a girl. Only that she was in a family way. It was impossible to tell before birth back then, as you know. I, I read some of the letters he sent home to her from the trenches. Had to sneak looks at them when she wasn't home; it hurt her too much to even talk about him often. Dad was so excited, so eager to get back and meet me, after she told him. It...it made things better over there, gave him hope for after the war." At that he shrugged, dropped his gaze down. Whether Joseph would have felt the same way if he'd actually met him, figured out how damaged the packaging would be once he grew, was a moot point. "He never got the chance to find out, one way or another. A part of me was...well, worried that would happen to us. But it didn't. I know about our son."

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the curve of her stomach. The glimmer in her dark eyes grew, the tears that had started pooling there while he explained himself teetering on the edge of her eyelids. She bit her lip, trying to stem them with physical actions such as that, and with carding her hand through the short strands of his hair.

"That you do," she murmured, a few seconds of fight left in her before she let the soulful truth and the raging hormones tip over. She sniffled, regaining his attention even as she tried to dash the tears away.

Sitting back up, Steve sighed, palms cupping her cheeks and thumbs sliding under her eyes to catch the stray tears that had fallen. "And now I've made you cry."

"Because what you said was so sweet and sad! How could I not?" she gasped at him, sardonic chuckles forcing out of both of them. Her concentration was pushed elsewhere, on something that would not make her bawl. Focusing on one point of his speech, she wondered, "Do you still have those letters?"

He canted his head, brushing away the last streaks of water from her face. "A couple of them. In the red lacquer box, with his Purple Heart."

Her chin dipped, knowing what box he was talking about. The red box, holding some of the most precious items of his life, resided on the top shelf of their closet, having been obtained during the first move to the base. Photocopies of his acceptance and orders for the army were within. The Purple Heart was wrapped in one of his mother's handkerchiefs, pinned to it. The compass with Peggy's picture inside was there, too, nestled atop the chapter of Holly's story that she allowed him to read before editing once. The letters were tucked atop some of their wedding photos, safe and sound, away from prying eyes. Another question occurred to her then.

"Will you...will you ever let me read them?"

Another pause followed, and he darted a look to the left. His little half-grin came to his lips, though the serious glint in his gaze hadn't abated.

"When you're not on the verge of tears," he retorted after a few seconds, snickering when she huffed out a breath.

"Alright. I can't guarantee I wouldn't cry while reading them, though," Holly warned him, acceding to his stipulation. Another sniffle, and she continued, "I mean, they're letters from your dad to your mom. Oh, God...no, the hormones will not win this time."

She started fanning her face, tilting it up to look at the ceiling and breathing deeply. Anything to stop her from crying yet again. When the urge passed, she let her focus fall onto Steve again, his grin taking on an aching air.

"Someday, you can read them, Holl. Just...just not tonight, okay?" he told her, picking at the crease of his jeans. It had already been an emotional evening; one more drop could tip the scale into maudlin territory, and neither of them wanted that.

"That's fine. I can work with 'someday,'" she said, coughing once and pushing away the last remnants of the overflow of her heart. There was enough to ponder that day, and the day after. Someday could wait for a bit. Someday could wait until after the bruise cream was put away, and after she'd given her husband a smacking kiss on the cheek for both his honesty and resumed exuberance for the near future.

 **xXxXxXx**

Peter Parker did not think there was much he could be thankful for after the death of his uncle. One thing he was grateful for, though, was the opportunity given to him by Tony Stark. Though the position had been granted to him based on a small fib spoken by the billionaire (something he hoped his Aunt May never found out about), his role as personal laboratory assistant to the genius was all too real. It was daunting, challenging work that forced his mind into overdrive on most days just to keep up, but it was worth it. It made a lot of things easier for him: school was a little more bearable, he and his aunt had things to talk about in place of the aching grief, and it gave him the chance to improve himself.

He needed to improve things about himself that were still...changing, shaping him. Things that were finally being put to good use after wallowing in pity and sorrow. But those things were attended to outside of laboratory hours, of which he had several that day. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, the young teenager would board the train out of Queens, taking himself into the heart of Manhattan, head down and hood up as he made his way to the infamous Avengers Tower. Passing through the back entrance, he boarded and crossed floors with a practiced ease, his security pass and personal codes bringing him all the way up to the private research floors that his boss favored. His camera was relegated to a pocket in his backpack; the views from the upper floors were incredible, but he did not have the time for photography that day.

The first Saturday of the month meant taking inventory of the lab, and Peter was ready to go about his task. Generally, it was something that could take anywhere from twenty minutes to an entire afternoon, depending on the log of project hours Mr. Stark had put in the previous four weeks and what he managed to remember to order himself in the interim. He hoped he would have some time left to himself after finishing; he had his own private projects to attend to, and given how restricted his lab access was, he couldn't afford to waste a moment without it. Punching in his codes, he entered the room, stopping short on the threshold when he realized the space wasn't quite as devoid of human life as he had supposed it would be. The nagging, tickling sense at the back of his mind alerted him, and he did well to listen to it. At the far end, seated on the metal table and deftly avoiding some leftover equipment, sat the billionaire, legs swinging slightly and his handheld blocking his eyes. But not, he could see, the devious grin sprouting on his lips. Confused at his presence (Tony nearly never was in the lab on a Saturday morning, unless he had stayed through the night before), the teen took a few steps into the room, his footsteps echoing as he moved.

"Oh, hey, Mr. Sta—erm, Tony," he corrected himself, coughing to clear his throat. He had long since been accorded the right to address the billionaire by his first name, but his upbringing in regards to how to treat elders was difficult to suppress. Jerkily lifting a shoulder, he inquired, "What's up?"

"Not much," the older man responded, not taking his eyes off his device. "Been prowling around on YouTube for a bit, unwinding. One of the strangest things came up in my recommendations."

Peter nodded, a little nonplussed but not unduly. Eccentricities were the norm for brilliant people, his aunt had warned him. And, in the case of the tech genius, that was most definitely true. Pausing, he squinted at Stark, tripped up by his speech.

"Wait, you have a YouTube account?"

"Yep," Tony confirmed, his lips popping on the 'p' as he nodded. Jumping down from his seat, he strode over to the kid, not elaborating any further on his online accounts. "But anyway, lookie at what has been popping up in this fair city over the last couple of months."

He tilted the screen of his handheld then, the holographic screen projected up. Tapping a finger, he started the cued video, Peter's attention focusing on it. A security camera captured a masked fellow attempting a carjacking. In the midst of it, a blue and red blur literally swung into frame, knocking the fellow off his feet and planting him into the concrete. Stark's thumb dated out, barely giving Peter enough time to register what he was looking at. Dark eyes were riveted to his face as the next video started to play, the blue and red blur swinging in just in time to stop a car from crashing into a city bus. He had to hand it to Parker; despite the rapid paling of his face, he was managing to keep his expression neutral. When the video cavalcade ended, the younger fellow coughed once, ducking his head before stepping around his mentor.

"Hmm. Strange," he muttered under his breath. He wandered over to steel table, ready to find a clipboard and pen. If he could pretend like he didn't know what was going on, that he had no clue what Stark was getting at, perhaps it would be set aside, left behind them. However, Tony was observing him closely, the rigidity of his posture and the determined way he refused to look at him, and he was not about to let it go. Lifting his eyebrows, he adopted a passive expression as he followed the younger man.

"Yeah, 'strange' is one way of putting it," he retorted mildly. Coming around to the opposite of the metal accoutrement, he paused for a second, deciding to change tack. "It's a bit different, isn't it?"

Peter felt the sweat break out on his forehead, his eyes latching onto the table before him as he placed his bag upon it.

"What is?" he attempted to ask in a nonchalant tone, his jaw tightening slightly. Flicking a glance up, he caught Tony shrugging his shoulders, a carefree look on his face while his eyes held deadly intent.

"Oh, flipping steel tables is a lot less work than upending a Nissan. You don't get it quite right, it can fall back on you. Like here." Tony flipped up the video again, tracking his finger over the interface and using it with his thumb to zoom in closer. Playing the video again at half time, he nodded to the screen. "If you'd planted more firmly on your back foot, you would've been fine and not have had to barrel roll to safety after putting it back down."

Silence reigned between them, going on for a long time. The proverbial pin was poised to drop when Peter slowly, hesitantly, met Tony's gaze once more. The desire, the need, to lie and deflect was clear in the teenager's irises, but the billionaire gave the smallest shake of the head, dissuading him from that course. A low sigh poured out of him then, and the older man waited for him to speak.

"…So you've known for awhile, I'm guessing," the boy crooned soon enough, and Tony inclined his head in affirmation.

"I suspected something had happened when you…well." Stark let the comment hang, not willing to go into the trauma and heartache of the night wherein Peter Parker had lost nearly everything, including his own mind. Raking a hand through his close-cropped hair, he continued, "Seemed a little off, even for grief. So I've been keeping an eye on you. Nothing invasive, just...making sure you're not getting yourself lost or something. Pings off your cell phone put you in those exact locations when the incidents occurred, and JJ confirmed it when I looked into it." He tapped his thumb against his pocket, screwing his brow up for a moment. "Give or take an hour for upload times; that website is so finicky."

"I, I…" the teenager stuttered, trembling palms flat on the tabletop and his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Sensing he was pushing the young man towards panic, Tony stepped back, pocketing his handheld and leaning against the wall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waited until Parker had gotten control over his breathing, had relaxed his shoulders minutely in the continued silence.

"You weren't going to watch that wrestling match, were you?" he murmured lowly, arching a dark brow. "You were _participating_."

Peter hung his head, defeat in every inch of his form. No sense in denying it any longer, not when he had been well and truly caught out.

"For college money." The younger man snorted sardonically, his hands curling into fists momentarily. "Which was really stupid."

Tony grimaced. Hindsight was 20/20, but it was best not to comment on that. Not as far as those circumstances were concerned.

"What happened, Pete?" he wondered instead, equal parts disturbed and fascinated by the developments in his protege. Pointing a finger at him, he opined, "Something to do with that illness in November, I bet."

Peter gave him a dour look. It had everything to do with his illness in November, he'd replied grimly. His class had taken a tour at another laboratory, their teacher having wanted to expose them to advancements being made in combining elements of the natural world with manufactured ones. Insects, primarily, were being experimented on, with different forms of radiation and radioactive chemicals being pumped into them. Arachnids were the most stable, and the most wily. During the class visit, one spider had escaped, though it was later found trampled under the panicked steps of his classmates.

However, it had managed to do its work before dying, and it bit him. He was unsure of the logistics of it (something that still bothered him), but the radioactivity and the chemistry of the spider's venom had laid him low for three days. There was talk of actually bringing him to the hospital, his aunt's terrified whispers leaking through his fevered state. And then, suddenly, it was over. The flu-like symptoms he'd developed were gone, and he honestly had never felt better in his life.

That was when the weirdness started.

The tickling sense at the back of his mind when danger was near, the unaccustomed level of strength he suddenly had, the odd film that secreted from his wrist...it took some time to adjust to it. He spent a lot of time hiding out in his room, avoiding his internship hours in an attempt to get himself under control. It was a painstaking process, one which he was still perfecting, but he soon enough had thought he had been given a gift. One that he could use for the betterment of his life.

And when that failed, in his eyes, he thought it could be used instead for the betterment of others. In honor of his uncle's philosophies. Glancing up, he noticed the dark brown eyes before him held no judgment, just patience as he wrapped up the loose threads of his tale. It explained so much, and truthfully, it was a relief for the older man to know it all. At least someone would know what had happened with him, and Stark was a better candidate for the truth than some others.

"Huh. That _is_ strange," Tony said when Peter had ended his explanation, his thumb and forefinger stroking idly at his goatee. Tipping his head to the side, he allowed the barest fraction of a grin to decorate his lips. "But I've seen weirder."

Peter almost smiled back. There was no doubt of the truth in Tony's words, none at all. Still, a nervous twist in his gut forced him to push past it, to inquire after his future. The future that, unbeknownst to him, the billionaire was closely considering on his behalf.

"So, does this mean I've lost my position here?"

The tech genius immediately canted his head in denial, assuaging the fear inside the younger one.

"No, but…we should probably look into a few upgrades for you," he noted, snatching up the teenager's backpack and unzipping it. Upending it, he pushed open the flap that was reserved for a laptop and dumped out the true contents. Specially-constructed canisters attached to cheap arm braces clattered across the table's surface, a flop of blue and red cloth hastily stuff back in by Peter before he could get a good look at it. Yeah, the kid needed a lot of upgrades; actual armor would help, for one thing, in place of the sloppily sewn monstrosity that he had worn in public already. "No need to design on your off-time."

"Really?" That time, Peter gave him an honest smile, in spite of his embarrassment over his vulgar equipment.

Tony nodded, hands resting on the tabletop and his expression turning stoic. "Yeah. This has just opened up a lot of options for you, kid."

Parker felt his heart hammer in his chest, knowing he was on the precipice of a new opportunity. An opportunity that touched the other side of the billionaire's life, a life that he, inevitably, had been made a part of.

"How many?" he wondered, combing over the flop of his brown hair and looking at his boss, his mentor.

Tony's mind turned to the myriad of emails he'd been sent, the reports that had been forwarded to him. Though he had been actively not answering any of Steve's messages, he still took the time to read them. It was implied that, in the very near future, some active changes were to be happening with and around the team. Despite not having been in the field for months, he would still be included in the process when the time came, and he fully intended to be so. His options, Peter's options, played right into his wheelhouse. Taking up one of the crudely-designed canisters, he held it up at eye level, a smirk stretching his lips as he darted a fast look at Parker. Inventory would definitely have to wait.

"You'll find out soon enough."

* * *

 **A/N:** ...Yep, it's a boy. :-) Congrats to those who guessed right (digital cookies for you), and to those who thought it would be a girl...well, digital cookies to you for guessing, anyway! And I do think knowing the gender, regardless of what it is for the baby, would be very important to Steve. In this universe, he's going above and beyond his dreams of the past, and even beyond what his own father was able to experience. Being excited about knowing seems right for him, to me.

Once again, I have touched on the Internet speculation that would most likely surround the Rogers and their growing family. My personal experiences of reading about celebrity speculation on the Internet tend to be that some people can be jerks just for the sake of being so. It's too much to expect everyone to like Holly, and she knows that, but it would be tough to read nasty stuff being said about your unborn child. Just imagine Steve's reaction to what's being said by some of his so-called admirers. Yikes.

And a little side-trip back to Manhattan was in order. Those opportunities Tony was talking about in regards to Peter tie in with Steve not resting on his laurels. All of which will come to light, eventually.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text (YouTube, Nissan, Marvel Comics, etc).

Looks like I made it in relatively good time this week for the update! Although, I can't say the next one won't be late. I'm just as busy this weekend, but hopefully I'll be able to keep myself on course.

One last thing: I wrote a two-shot about Steve and Holly, and bad nights that they have due to the stresses of their lives, last week. I would appreciate it you all could check it out, if you haven't yet. It's called, "Still of the Night" and can be found in the My Stories tab on my page.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	19. Chapter 19

"Ouch! Dammit!" Holly cried, snapping her finger back from the piece she'd been working on. Disappointment and rage warred on her face as she stuck the sore digit into her mouth. She glared darkly at both the manual by her knee and the glide support hanging precariously off the side panel. The crib was out to get her, she was certain of it. It had outright pinched and stymied her from the moment it had been taken out of the packaging. If one of the panels wasn't trying to fall on her, she had the metal parts to contend with, her mounting frustration making her slip and scratch here and there. Painting the room had been less of a hassle, even with all the taping that had to be done. And at least that had turned out the way she'd been hoping; the shade of light green that had been chosen was gorgeous. Her son's eventual bed? Pain in the ass.

Her finger was removed from her mouth as Steve came up with the tiny mattress for it, firm and meeting the many specifications of safe baby bedding. As her brain began to churn over all the rules of crib safety, she tried again, only to slip and scratch the screwdriver away and across the inner varnish, leaving a mark.

"That's it; screw this thing and its mother," she yelped, fist clenching hard around the tool to prevent her from tossing it across the room. "Shoving the kid back into my womb to sleep every night will be less of a pain than putting this stupid piece of shi—garbage, together."

Inhaling deeply, Steve finally looked over at Holly, awash in a sea of metal and wooden parts, screws and other bits scattered around her as she sat upon the floor. The crib they'd picked out in Albany several days ago had been shipped out, delivered to the drop house designated for large purchases for the base (furniture and the like could not be held indefinitely at the post offices, and so a separate domicile had been engaged once the base had been opened). The rest, including a dresser, a rocker, and a changing table, were taking their time to get out there, but at least they could get started on the crib. The agent stationed there had extended well wishes to the couple, stating that building the thing would be a chore—he'd helped his sister put one together for her first kid, and he had proclaimed he would not ever repeat the experience. Well, he wasn't lying, the captain mused peevishly; his wife had formed a sour relationship with the thing from the get-go, bruises and pinched skin its retaliation. If she had waited for him to help her, her patience would've had a chance, he surmised. As it was, she'd barely paused for him to remove the pieces from the box, declaring she would at least get a head-start while he got the rest of it removed from the truck. She'd built her bookcases and entertainment unit downstairs, she'd pointed out. She could handle getting a couple of rails on while he brought up the mattress and linens.

Apparently, the bookcases were less trying than a baby bed.

"Holl," he said, attempting to soothe ruffled feathers. Kneeling down, his palms slid over her shoulder blades and down her back. A hand swatted backward, slapping at his wrist and propelling his comfort away. He exhaled harshly, but did not push. It was a time to pick his battles, and this would definitely not be one of them.

"Nuh-uh! I have had more injuries in the last twenty minutes than I've had in the last year." Off his spiked eyebrow, Holly veritably glowered, pointing jerkily at her own forehead. "And yes, I'm including the friggin' coffee table scar."

He winced at that, at the reminder of how she'd gotten that injury in the first place. "Maybe you should take a break."

"That's the plan," she groused, rolling up onto her knees and shuffling towards the closest wall. Bracing a hand against it, she got to her feet slowly, Steve coming forward and hooking his palm under her elbow to steady her. Once she was fully upright, she let out a rumbling groan before slapping the screwdriver into his grip. Nodding to the manual still on the floor, she raised her eyebrows at him. "Go ahead. Take a shot at the devil crib."

With the pleasant nickname given, she shuffled out of the room, resolutely turning her back on the project in favor of recollecting herself. Scrubbing his free hand across his face, there was little left for Steve to do, other than to pick up where she'd left off.

"Okay, okay," he assented, getting onto the floor and pulling the paper instructions closer. Palming the piece of glider that she had been working on, he muttered, "I'm sure it…argh!"

It was impossible not to cry out, particularly as his skin had been caught between the screw dangling on the glider and the panel. Jerking his hand back, he brought it up to his mouth to alleviate the pinch he'd just endured. The stupid piece of furniture really _did_ have it out for them.

"Told you!" was the rapid reply floating around the corner from the office. Flashing a dark look at the barren hallway, he removed his mouth from the side of his hand, the throbbing growing duller by the second.

"Didn't doubt you in the first place, dear," he called back, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Palming the screwdriver again, he peered at the manual and absently reached out for the left side panel. However, a leg of it had hooked around the back panel, and both tumbled down towards him. "Gah, sonofa—"

His expletive was cut off by the closing of the office door, with Holly pacing the carpeted floor for several long minutes. Deep breathing exercises were employed, in and out, to calm herself. It was just a silly crib, she reminded herself, a piece of furniture. A piece of furniture that was trained to fight back, but furniture nonetheless. It would not get the best of her; it wasn't worth that much. Sinking down into the desk chair, she continued her deep breathing, pulling up to the desk and opening her laptop to engage in another project that threatened to make her blood pressure rise. At least the new one would be mildly more enjoyable. And less pinchy.

With the contract examined and signed, Holly had entered the editing stage for her story. The literary agent was still hashing some of the finer details with the department, but otherwise she was given the chance to make some tweaks and changes to her story. Having not been involved in it for awhile, she found it to be challenging, getting her mind back to universe she had created. It would be worth it in the end. The reminder never hurt, especially when she received emails from the editor with tight time frames attached to them. Opening up the most recent one of the bunch, she sighed as she retrieved the attachment, red typeface in the margins instructing her in what needed fixing and what alterations would help polish the story.

"Five days to do chapter rewrites for both four and five. Thanks, guys," she muttered under her breath, cracking her knuckles before selecting a new word document. Putting it and the attachment side by side, she wound down from the residual anger brought up by the crib and frowned at the screen. "Alright, gotta develop the bond between the handler and Chelsea." She did not have time to get too in-depth about the changes she made, but she did make a list of ways to show how Chelsea, the girl with powers in her story, grew to accept and respect her handler, instances that would make the impact of future betrayal strike all the harder later on in the text. Fingers flew over the keyboard after several long seconds of silence, the peace undisturbed save for a crow of outrage from the room next door on occasion. Her stomach fluttered, and she was about to brush it off merely as gas, but something about it struck her as being...different. Hands rested on the keyboard, and she glanced down at the swell. When another flutter happened a few minutes later, her dark eyes widened significantly. "Oh."

Rising from her seat, she barely remembered to hit the save button before hastily speeding out of the room. She went right to the doorway of the nursery, her smile lessened when she realized Steve was no longer in there. Shuffling and a click came from the hallway bathroom, giving away his position, and she went there immediately. Peering into the room, she saw her husband pulling a box of bandages out of one of the drawers. Selecting one, he glimpsed her out the corner of his eye as he tore the paper apart, ready to dress the new cut on his finger. Gesturing with the bleeding appendage, he grunted low.

"I know you already said it, doll, but this really is a pain in the…what?" Steve started, cutting himself off as he became aware of her big eyes and secretive little smile. Bemusement flooded his features, and he wondered, "Holly, what is it?"

"Just come here for a second," she commanded gently. When he finished securing the adhesive bandage, he approached her. Tipping her palm out to him, she requested, "Give me your hand."

Doing as she asked, he placed his hand in hers, allowing her to guide it to her belly. It was a little low, and off to the right, but she held his palm firmly there, heat from his fingers soaking into her blouse. The clock down the hall was ticking audibly as they remained there, suspended in waiting. After several long seconds, Holly's eyebrows snapped together, and her lips pursed as she stared down. Oh, so _now_ was when the baby chose to be quiet? Right when she wanted her husband to feel him turning inside her? For his part, Steve's expression was laced with mild amusement.

"…Not that I mind touching your bump or anything, but why _am_ I touching it?" he queried, digits shifting away from the spot. Immediately, she seized his wrist, securing it in place.

"Hold on, give it a minute." Another glance was cast down, a little prayer projected at it silently.

 _'Come on, Baby Boy, do it again. Do it for Daddy,'_ she begged the little one inside, breathing shallowly.

"I think it's been more than a minute. What's…" he trailed off as fluttering pressed into his palm. He stilled, his hand frozen on the swell as another rippled under her skin. Blue eyes widened as he looked up at her, understanding dawning. "Oh. _Oh_."

She nodded enthusiastically, grin broadening again. "Yeah."

"He's moving," Steve said, his other hand braced along her swell, too. Another thump, a little harder than the first, rebounded against him, and he laughed. "Woah, he's kicking now."

"I thought it was just stomach rumbles at first, but…it's too much to be that, you know?" Holly explained, giggling herself. More than the ultrasounds, more than the physical growth of her body, this was confirmation. It really, truly drove home the point that she was carrying a baby. A little, live human being was growing, and she could feel it. She could feel him, and would feel him from then on out.

"Wow. That, that is amazing," he stammered. The beam he sported dimmed as the seconds passed, his gaze flicking away from her belly to a point over her head. Concentration spilled into his expression, and his jaw twitched.

"What you thinkin', Steve?" she asked him, curious as to what was going through his mind. Meeting her eyeline again, he took a deep breath.

"I'm thinking…it's time to move forward with the plans for the team," he revealed, bringing up his palms to rub up and down her arms. "Only got a few short months until this little guy comes, and I've gotta get things in line."

Holly inclined her head. The intricate details were still being discussed and hashed out, but she did know about the broad outlines of some of the plans Steve had for the near future.

"Fury and Maria have already agreed?" she inquired. Last she'd heard, the two were still on the fence after discussing options with Steve, and nothing concrete had been decided upon. Given the way her husband's face brightened a shade or two told her that had changed.

"It's just a question of organizing a good time and actually discussing options with everybody." Light squeezing on her forearms, and then he dropped his grasp. "It'll take some doing, but it'll be worth it in the end."

She laid a palm on his bicep, looking up at him with all seriousness. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Whatever you're doing right now with him, keep doing that," he said, a palm patting her belly fondly. Another tiny kick came, and he snorted. "Feisty, ain't he?"

Raising her chin proudly, she smirked at him. "Just like Daddy."

A deliberate scoff poured out of his mouth. "Yeah, because Mommy's totally innocent on that account."

Smiling blithely at him, she canted her head back towards the hall, taking a step or two away from him.

"Well, either way, break's over," she announced, pivoting on her heel and gesturing for him to come along. "Let's finish building the crib from hell."

"Oh sure, keep associating our child's bed with something evil. That's very comforting," he replied sarcastically. Risking a glance down at the newly acquired bandage, he cleared his throat and amended his statement. "Although, you do have a point."

Holly just blinked at him, the tiniest curve coming to her lips as they entered the nursery again. Letting him guide her back down to the floor, she started divvying up the remaining tools and parts between them. The instructions were laid out for both of them to read, her squinting involving a lot less rage that time around. Deciding that he would finish the work on the remaining glider, she would start prepping for the second one.

"Hand me the Allen wrench," she said, drawing in a breath for courage as he passed the tool to her. It would be finished that night, come hell or high water. They would get the crib assembled and ready for their son, no matter how many times it bit them.

Picking up the screwdriver for himself, Steve's bright eyes glimmered. "Won't it be a joy to convert when he's a toddler."

Holly snorted loudly, lines in her forehead becoming more pronounced as she went about her task.

"Don't remind me."

 **xXxXxXx**

The following Saturday found another quinjet arriving at the base, getting in around sunset and its occupancy very small. In fact, aside from the pilot and co-pilot, there was only one other person aboard. Bucky Barnes, off a long mission in Belarus, had returned to the helicarrier, finding it close enough to New York to make his report in person for once. On top of that, Fury had granted him five days of leave. After working nonstop for the last several months, he was unwilling to let one of his most effective agents collapse under the pressure of his occupation. Frankly, Bucky reckoned his stamina could take him a lot further than a few months, but his therapist had also recommended he take the offered days, and so there he was, in civvies and free. Once his report was filed, he could head back to the Rogers homestead, take some time to catch his breath. Maybe he would get in some training, too; the Avengers base had much better facilities to utilize than the carrier, and he was determined to have a crack at some of the updated equipment.

Perhaps he would be joined by a certain fiery redhead, one who would be just as eager to meet his challenge and spar. Maybe she would join him for more than that...maybe, maybe...

First, though, he had his report. Or so he had thought when he met Wilson on the platform. Informed of his arrival, the other man had greeted him well enough. Pleasantries, while stilted, were exchanged as they disembarked for the elevator. An inner alarm was ringing in his head; generally, it would be Steve that would meet him, or Natasha. The fact that Sam had done so, instead, seemed a little off. When he said as much, the other man had chuckled, informing him that he might not be as out of touch as some people might think he was. Frowning, he merely followed him as he led the way, not to the offices, but to the private quarters at the back. As they passed the security checkpoints, his suspicion rose exponentially. And when he heard the festive music, he definitely knew something was up.

"What's going on?" he asked, staring ahead as Wilson brought him further into the space. All at once, his vision was assaulted with green streamers and shamrocks strung up to the ceiling, the traditional Irish folk music playing on the overhead system. Wanda waved him from across the room, laughing loudly as she drank deeply from a cup and poked the Vision in the arm. Teasingly, she pointed to the "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" shirt she was sporting, and the automaton's eyes were saucer-sized at her implication. Rhodey was in low-voiced conference with the captain, and there was a flicker of red hair disappearing behind a column at the far end.

"Well, this here is what we call a 'party,'" Sam explained carefully, as though he were speaking to a child. When Barnes narrowed his eyes at him, he snickered. "Welcome to it."

"Bucky," Steve's voice rang out, the other man departing from the colonel's side and greeting him with a fond handshake. "You got here in good time."

Barnes took another fast glance around, the hand clasping the straps of his duffel clenching.

"Actually, it would seem I'm a little late, or a little early."

"Nope, right on time," the captain countered, his eyes darting to the obscene amount of green décor and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling (he was the only one of Irish descent in the bunch, so the enthusiasm of his coworkers was amusing, to say the least). "Didn't really have a time to celebrate St. Paddy's this week, so here we are."

A party. That was something Bucky wasn't sure he was prepared for.

"Steve, my mission report, I'm not—"

"It can wait," Sam cut in, clapping him on the shoulder. When Bucky merely glowered and flicked a pointed look down at the appendage, he arched a brow at him. "Ditch the grumps, old timer."

Wilson released his hold on him, wandering off instead to get himself a drink. A hard week of missions, plus another rocky argument with Kay, was enough to deal with. He would leave the ex-assassin with social anxiety to others. The remaining two men watched him go, Barnes shaking his head and Steve scratching the back of his neck. When a look was chanced the captain's way, he gave his old friend a rueful smirk.

"Can't be serious all the time, Buck," he advised gently, cupping a hand in the air. "You can cut loose, you know. Not a whole lot of opportunities to do so, so take 'em while you can."

Barnes met his gaze, the straightness of his spine slowly relaxing. Without the threat of danger looming over him at the moment, and with him among people who would not actively wish him ill (he wasn't too sure about the colonel, still, but that was understandable; he was standing with his friend, and he didn't blame him for it), he could afford to take a break. Act like a regular human being, even if he would never think of himself as one.

"…Okay. Fine," he conceded to his friend's request, dropping his bag and following him over to the wet bar on the opposite side of the communal space. As they made their way across, he inquired after Holly, who was nowhere in sight. She was well, Steve gushed, though she had cried off attending the team party that. (Something to do with attempting pregnancy yoga while one of her agent friends helped her out, whatever that was.) Joining him as he poured out another glass of whiskey, Bucky let the amber liquid swish around the cup, intent on savoring it. The bright blue stare of his companion was difficult to ignore, and soon enough, he shot a glare over the rim of his glass at him.

"What?"

Steve shrugged, his head shaking slightly even as he grinned. "Never thought I'd see the day where I'd have to be the one persuading you to let go and have a good time."

Bucky snorted at that, swallowing some of his drink and letting the burn of good liquor course down his throat.

"And I had never thought I'd see the day where a gal would make a pass at you and ignore me, but we were both proven wrong eventually, right?"

Memories flooded both of them, and their grins took on a somewhat saddened cast. Steve rotated the glass in his hand, a puff of air coursing out his mouth before he took a swig from it.

"Yeah, I guess so," he agreed, purposefully making his voice take on a cheery tone. "Not something you have to worry about now, of course."

Barnes's bitter laugh rumbled out. Not too many ladies were clamoring for the attentions of an unstable, ex-assassin still in brainwash-recovery mode.

"Tell that to the agents who come up to me to 'put in a good word with the captain' for them," he divulged, ignoring the self-hatred that had swelled up. Quirking his lips, he concluded, "Married or not, you're a popular guy."

The captain's lips thinned, and he shrugged the implications off.

"Doesn't matter. I am married, and that ain't changing, no matter how many words are put in. Good or bad," he declared, thumb rubbing against the wedding band on his finger and his eyes softening as he looked down at it. His old friend averted his own gaze down into his cup. If Steve was still enjoying marital bliss, then he couldn't begrudge him that. He deserved it, in his estimation, having been on his own for so long...his focus was pulled back to the present moment when the captain tipped his glass at him in a salute. "Enjoy the action, pal, 'cause it's all yours."

"Not really," Bucky corrected him, letting Steve's look of surprise roll off him. There weren't many ladies, but that wasn't to say one or two hadn't taken a shine to him. A couple of the rotating members of his response team had given him the eye, he knew that much. There was also a girl who worked on the bridge, a pretty gal with green eyes and legs for days. And he certainly had looked himself, but a quick fling, while appealing in the moment, was not his ultimate goal. Not then. Flicking a few fingers in the air, he revealed, "Not too keen on being, erm, 'active duty' these days."

The surprise melted remarkably fast from Steve's gaze, and the blond man gave him a half-smile.

"Good. Hard to do that when you're carrying a torch, anyway," he pointed out, an off-handed response that Bucky blinked at. Steve spiked an eyebrow at him, as if mutely asking him how stupid he thought he was. Outwardly, he intimated bluntly, "I'm not blind. Some things may have changed, but I still can tell when you're keen on a particular gal."

The flash of red danced out the corner of his eye, and he reflexively turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of the face under the fiery hair. Having just missed it, again, he pivoted back in time to spy Steve's barely-suppressed smirk.

"Steve," he warned him, daring him to do something about it. The captain, though, met his steely stare with one of ice. As the seconds passed, the thaw came to both their gazes, but the intent remained clear on each side. Breathing a sigh out his nose, Rogers drained the whiskey from his glass, reaching behind the bar to grab up the bottle again.

"Just...like I said before, be careful," he reiterated, caution seeping out of him and into his friend. Pinned beneath the hardened gaze, Bucky met it fully, a single nod given to the captain before he departed. Taking a moment to think, to get his bearings, he ambled over to the seating area in the middle of the room. It had lasted for a mere moment, though, as Natasha had come out of nowhere, a small cake in hand and a lit candle atop it. It wasn't just a celebration for St. Patrick's Day; his birthday had also passed recently, and she was not about to let it go by without remarking upon it. There was no singing (thank the Lord, he mused privately), but the beauty did admonish him to make a wish, at least. The wish he had was one that was at the forefront of his mind most days, and it was no hardship to wish for it again. Blowing out the candle, he obediently ate the cake at her behest. Presents for him were back at home, the captain had explained, as they did not know if he would be delayed or not. A part of him was marveling at it all; his birthday had passed by for seventy years without so much as a nod given to the date. To celebrate now seemed so strange.

But then again, so many things were strange to him those days. Stewing over his thoughts as the party whirled around him, he did not register the tap on his shoulder nearly an hour later.

"Hey, old man," a smooth, feminine voice called him out of his musings. Glancing up, he was met with a bright smile and glittering eyes. Natasha had returned from wherever she had wandered off to earlier. Glancing obviously at the couch he was perched upon, she asked, "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," he told her, scooting over so that she could sit next to him. Taking in the sight of his empty cake plate, he hooked a thumb at it, grinning slightly. "Thanks for the...well, you know."

He could've sworn her smile became brighter, but he wasn't sure that was possible.

"Had to find some excuse to work it in and embarrass the hell outta you," she said, shrugging a bit and brushing a non-existent wrinkle from her blouse. She nudged him with her elbow and winked , the action making his stomach lurch. "Wait until next year. One hundred is quite a milestone."

Snorting, it was his turn to focus on the toe of his boot. "I guess. Should I expect a brass band or somethin'?"

"Please. Swing band would be more appropriate," Natasha decreed. Her gaze slid to the left, and she went on, "Though I don't know if I want to wait that long to see your dance moves. Steve has basically said they're legendary."

A real, genuine chuckle rumbled in his throat, and he knocked back the last of his whiskey, it having remained untouched until then. Legendary? Well, wasn't that quite something to live up to? His mouth curved at the corner, the charming set of his countenance as he leaned closer to her making her eyes widen.

"Play the right tune, and I'll dance with ya whenever you want, sugar," he suggested, the words rising from a place inside him that he thought he'd never be able to touch again. Somehow, though, he was able to do so. With her, at least. Setting his glass down, he was just about to lean back in his seat and enjoy the quiet moment when the sensors in his left wrist were triggered. She had her fingers clasped around it, and she sprang to her feet, a crafty smile decorating her lips. His eyebrows shot up as she tugged at it, silently insisting that he get up. Rising to his feet, he was pulled across the communal living space, curious looks shot at them from the others as they went. Taking him to an open area by the windows, the darkness of the night blotted out all but their reflections. Using her phone, she contacted the AI in charge of virtually everything around the base, commanding it to replace the melodic traditional Irish music with a...more swingin' track (her exact words). That certainly got everyone's attention, and the others stared at them as the music changed. The bang of drums suddenly took over the sound system, and his heart thumped with them, the electric charge of it so familiar to him. Natasha, sporting a look of smug satisfaction, tossed her phone onto a nearby chair, taking his hand and guiding him to the center of the space, matching his unconscious bouncing on the balls of his feet with her own.

Swallowing hard, he mumbled, "Oh, wow, you actually—"

"Time to put up or shut up, Barnes," she insisted, placing his right palm on her waist, and hooking her fingers around the left. Personally, she had little experience with swing dancing, but she was confident in her ability to keep up with whatever was thrown at her. Bucky glanced down at his feet, nervousness wafting off him then.

"I'll, uh, I'll try. It's a bit easier to remember how much C-4 to use at this point," he uttered flatly, clearing his throat. She canted her head to the left, the stir of her hair drawing his attention for a second.

"Muscle memory; your body will take care of it," she assured him. Spying the layer of doubt under his irises, she leaned a little closer to him, her weight in his arms grounding him. She met his gaze, the challenge subdued somewhat. Swaying, and therefore causing him to sway with her, she whispered, "Trust me. Show me, Sarge."

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside of him, when she breathed those words. All at once, Bucky was off, his feet tripping along as his arms caught her up. One could hardly compare him to Fred Astaire, but he was keeping up with the music as it went, the steps of long ago pushing him along. Natasha ducked her head once or twice, getting a feel for the rhythm of the movement as he guided her along the impromptu dance floor. Spins were almost expertly timed as he led her through them, the beat pulsating through their bodies as they met over and over again. Claps and cheers echoed around them (she thought she'd even spotted Rhodey getting into it, rooting for them as they moved), their captive audience watching as they moved with precision and a synchronization that typically was reserved to their fighting abilities in the field. Catching a glimpse of his lightning-quick grin, she saw the young man he'd once been: Sergeant James Barnes, out on the town and painting it red with every jump and jive his feet could muster. For a moment, she was breathless, almost stumbling in her steps as the crude vessel in her chest beat erratically, its betraying chant drowning out the music for a few seconds. His arm looped around her waist, hoisting her off the ground, and instinct had her fingers digging into his shoulders and her legs crooking around him. Part of her was grateful that she had chosen to wear pants; no unsightly flairs of the skirt as he went into a fast spin would mar the moment. Hands pressed at her hips, prompting her to spring away, and when she landed he drew her in, twisting her out and catching her at the last second.

The music cut off then, the team whooping and clapping at their display. Even the Vision had seemed enthralled by their movements, his electric blue eyes cutting to the auburn-haired young woman to his left as she loudly congratulated the pair on their dancing. Steve, with a knowing glint to his eye, merely grinned at his old friend, a look darted to the redhead still in his arms as they caught their breath. Bucky's face, already tinged red with exertion, felt the crimson grow a few shades darker. The smile that had graced his lips vanished, though, when Natasha stiffened in his grasp, extracting herself with aplomb and her chin dipping in thanks to the others before she wandered away. His brows sprang together, and he made a silent appeal to Steve, unsure of what to do. The captain felt his forehead crease in concern, and he nodded for him to follow her. If he wanted answers about the invitation and the sudden, cold cut-off, it would be best to get them from the source. Thinning his lips, he trotted towards the communal kitchen, catching up with her just as she braced a palm around the handle of the refrigerator. Her bright, brittle gaze locked onto his, and he could practically see the shutters falling into place, the inner exposure that had threatened to surface pushed down. Opening the fridge, she grabbed out two beer bottles, popping the caps on the edge of the nearby counter before handing one off to him.

"Well, that was a good time," she said, the airy tone of her voice not fully dissipated. Taking a pull from her bottle, he watched the swallow course down her throat, and he inhaled sharply. Another wink, deadly and cutting him to the core, was shot at him as she rested her hip against the opposite counter. "Can see why you had such a reputation."

The edge of her tone caught him off-guard, and as he took a sip of his own, he closed his eyes. Finding courage, finding strength that resided deep within him, he put the bottle down and looked upon her again. He took in the flush of her face, the languid set of her body, and the fanning fieriness of her hair, and he swallowed.

"Natasha...what is this?" he asked, his voice steady even as a minuscule part of his brain quaked at the quagmire he was about to willingly traverse. For her part, she merely blinked at him, though her back stiffened.

"What's what?" she threw back, widening her eyes for effect. He was not taken in by it, though.

"This," he said simply, flapping at the space between them. At the things hovering unspoken between them. Those things had been eating away at him, little by little, for months now, and he wasn't about to let them do so any longer. Not after the provocation of the night. "What are we doing here?"

"Well, currently we're drinking, or so I thought." Pursing her lips, she wiggled the bottle in her hand for emphasis. A frown grew; a smart-ass answer, something he half-expected when he'd asked. If she was going to be flippant about it, like she was with so many other areas of her life, then he wasn't going to merely accept it.

"Right." Turning, he managed to get a few steps away before she called out to him.

"Hey, come on," she said, her plaintive voice going unheard. Sensing that it wasn't working, she set her bottle aside, striding swiftly after him and grabbing at the crook of his elbow. "James, stop."

Bucky scoffed out loud at her entreaty, even though he did pause. "And get the brush-off again? No thanks, dollface."

"What did I do?"

"It isn't..." He stopped, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. It wasn't something she had done, it was just...something that she wasn't doing, that she wasn't allowing herself to do. He had seen flickers of want on and off over the last several months in her, in her eyes, ones that he thought were reflections of his own needs. In that moment, though, he started to question if that was true.

Looking down at her then, in the mist of her ocean-colored eyes, a spike of it shot through, and he held his breath as she met his gaze.

"I can't understand until you tell me what's wrong," she murmured, her face scrunching up as she considered a quip. "It's not like you came with a user's manual or something."

All joviality and amusement disappeared in that instant, the frost of his gaze icing it all. Oh, he was not about to take it, not that time.

"Is this just a joke to you, or a game? Because I gotta tell ya, it ain't funny, and I don't like being toyed with," he ground out, snapping his arm out of her grip. Stunned by his refusal to accept her usual modes of address, her jokes, she gaped at him for a second or two. The levity of their time together was lost, and he did not want it back. What he wanted was the truth, plain and simple.

What he didn't know, was whether she could give him that much. Perhaps not that time.

"I'm not playing around," she told him, encroaching on his space once more and meeting his gaze squarely. A finger traced along the line of his jaw, and he closed his eyes, leaning towards her touch. "There's...there's no game here, James."

Violently, he carded a hand through his hair, head shaking as he tipped it back and stared at the ceiling. No answers were to be found there, and the traitorous mix of feelings inside him provided no solace, either.

"Christ, this doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. Half the time, I'm so lost I have no idea what to think about the world around me. Other times, everything is so clear that it's painful, and I'd rather go crawl in a hole and die. But...it's not like that with you," he professed, the words rocking her just as much as they were stirring him. Every single one was true, though, and he could not stop himself from uttering them aloud. Hands, one warm and one cold, cupped her cheeks, the thumbs sliding over her skin. "You help it come out alright. Until you pull away. Until you think...hell, I don't know what you think. Whatever it is, I wish you didn't think it. Because it makes you just as lost as me, and I don't want that for you."

The edge was there, both of them poised upon it. Both of them ready to either leap, or flee.

Breathing hard, Natasha asked, "And what do you want, Bucky?"

The mists in her eyes flooded again, and he sighed.

"Something...something that I'm not sure you want, too." His hands dropped, and he took a step back. The sudden rush of confusion and hurt in her gaze tore through him, and he had to look down at his feet to maintain his composure. Fists curled to stop himself from reaching for her again, and so he shuffled backward once more. "But I don't know, either way. And won't, until you figure out your side. Just...let me know when you do."

With that, he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to walk away and leave her. He wouldn't beg and he wouldn't plead. It had to be done, no matter how hard it was to keep pacing farther away, to flag down Steve and tell him that he'd had enough. When she was ready, whatever she decided, he would hear her out. For the moment, it was just time to go.

 **xXxXxXx**

Natasha had retreated to her quarters, a single light on above her as she sat at her breakfast bar. An open bottle rested nearby on the counter top, but it had remained virtually untouched. Her attention was riveted to the letters scattered before her, retrieved from her private safe and laid side by side. For hours, her gaze had been darting between them, jumping from one to the next without a break. The party had broken up some time after Bucky had left her in the communal kitchen, had asked Steve quietly if they could go back to the house. He'd left her, left her to think, to consider...everything. And so, she was.

Ten months. Ten months had passed since the Winter Soldier had reentered her life, shedding the title to become Bucky Barnes again. It had seemed like such a long time, but conversely, she'd felt as though it had been mere minutes since that moment. Since the moment Bruce left her, his excuses of being broken and not fitting together pricking at her, as always. Granted, the sting had lessened as time had passed, but she would not forget them. She could not forget them. Because, even though it was used as an excuse, it was true. She was broken, had been broken since childhood, and had been spending the majority of her adult life gluing the pieces back together. The whole they were forming was almost unrecognizable from the little girl who had been locked to her bed, who had been cast out and forced to destroy the other ones just like her. Jagged, sharp edges capped with beauty and deadliness were all that remained as a common tether. Well, that, and the underlying terror that the Red Room had instilled; no amount of therapy would rid her of it, no matter how many times she met with her doctor. No matter how many trips she took to Clint's farm to unwind, let her baggage rest.

Seven months since he had first written her, first as an obligation at his friend's behest. And her answer was just as much an obligation. However, it had morphed into more, each letter becoming longer, stronger for every piece of his ragged soul that he let her see, for every busted edge and cut the had formed him. What had happened was unexpected, what it had all turned into was beyond what she'd imagined. Natasha had not been angling for anything when Barnes had first reached out to her, had not expected anything from him. She had just conceded to helping another broken person find the pieces, let them start to stitch himself up and move on with his life.

What she hadn't expected was for some of the pieces to be sewn in with the fabric of her life, intertwining them and blending them. It was all patchwork and sloppy stitches, but it had happened, nonetheless.

 _And what do you want?_

 _...Something I'm not sure you want, too..._

Compromised, compromised again was the chant echoing deep down inside her. Natasha sighed. What she wanted went against everything she had been taught. What she wanted went against her own inner mantra, her cold remark made to Loki all those years ago resurfacing as she thought on it. Her eyes screwed shut and she scrubbed a hand against her forehead.

Sentiment, feeling. It was a fairy-tale, a dream that only children clung to. Or so the little, nasty voice that had been with her since her youth had spat at her, time and again. However, it was being drowned out by a louder voice, one that sounded more and more like her everyday. A voice that pointed at Clint and Laura, Tony and Pepper, Steve and Holly, and asked why it was childish to behave as they had. To live as they had, to care for others and be strengthened by it. Perhaps it made them vulnerable, but it did not make them weak, did not make them less. Natasha knew what it was like to be less, to feel less. What they had, wasn't that. What she could have with Bucky did not have to be less, would never be that. Given the chance, of course.

Natasha's hands dropped, her eyes snapped open, and she let herself feel, let herself know what she truly wanted. She was ready to take that chance.

Set on her course, Natasha determinedly grabbed her coat, slinging it on as she strode out of her quarters. The communal spaces were dark, save for the odd light or two left on for security purposes. The remnants of beer bottles and food bowls were scattered about, but she paid them no mind, cutting a path instead to the elevator bank. She fidgeted, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she rode the elevator down to the garage, and nearly sprinted when the doors opened. In a trice, she was in her car and roaring down the frontage road. She drove with purpose, slashing the normal commute time in half as she sped down the backroads with ease, her sports car revving as she gave it more gas. Turning up a familiar driveway, she thumbed into her digital panel, alerting the security system that she was a friend, not a foe. JJ, recognizing her vehicle, granted her access to the property, but was not at liberty to let her into the house. After ten o'clock, the domicile was in lockdown, and entry could only be granted by the occupants. As she parked in front of the garage, she glanced in the direction of the house. There were no lights on, which told her that all three had retired for the evening. Blowing out a breath, she retrieved her phone from her pocket, pulling up a number and selecting it to send a message. Biting the inside of her cheek, she tapped her thumb along the edge of the device for a moment or two. Perhaps it was a mistake, to come in the middle of the night and reopen the can of worms between Bucky and her.

No, no, she chided herself as her fingers tapped at the screen, words forming under her swipes. She could do it. She could be strong. The message was sent, and she got out of her car, going around to the back door like she had said she would in the text message. Though the window was shaded, she blinked when the outline of light came on, the lightest tread of feet across the floor greeting her ears through the wooden panels of the house. Faint taps could be heard, along with the clunk and slide of locks being released. As the door finally swung open, she squinted against the sudden brightness, her focus turning onto the looming man before her.

Bucky stood there, filling the frame and looking down at her. He hadn't changed since returning to the homestead with Steve; his red Henley shirt clung to his cut torso, shifting as he crossed his arms over his chest. His hair was ruffled, as though he'd been pulling and tugging at it repeatedly in frustration. Her hands balled up at her sides, preventing her from reaching out and combing it back into place, from running her fingers along the scruff of his jaw. For a moment, her eyes latched onto the glint of metal hanging around his neck, the dog tag she'd given him still being worn. Noticing her focus on it, he said nothing, and instead waited for her to say something.

He didn't have to wait very long.

"This is a bad idea," she blurted suddenly, and inwardly she chastised herself for being so blunt. For his part, Bucky merely furrowed his brow in confusion.

"What?"

"This," she stated, as though affirming a simple fact of life. Tipping a palm out, she continued, "Me, being here, and…well, you know."

She tried to smile, lighten the seriousness of the situation somewhat, but from the way Bucky's posture hardened further, he was not having it. Just like before.

"No, I don't know," he shot back, jaw setting and his stance tightening. "I think I made that point earlier."

The grin on her lips faded. "So you did."

"So, what, then?" he probed, staring down at her. When no answer was forthcoming, when her bright eyes merely gazed at him, he shuffled uncomfortably. Softening his stance and his tone, he asked her, "Why are you here, Natasha?"

Opening her mouth, the barest creak echoing through the boards cut her off, eyes flicking over his shoulder towards the ceiling of the kitchen. It may have just been the house settling, but she did not want to risk an audience at the moment.

"We...we should probably do it inside." A dark eyebrow inclined slightly, the barest glimmer of a smirk playing across his lips, and she shot him a dirty look. Clearing her throat, she amended her statement. "Take this inside."

His moment of amusement faded, and he sighed. Scratching at the back of his neck, he risked a glance over his shoulder, his ear bent towards the interior of the house. Thus far, their little discussion did not seem to have woken Steve or Holly. If they wanted to keep it that way, wanted to keep their conversation private, they would have to relocate.

"Fine," he conceded, taking a step in and unblocking the doorway. Waving her forward, he muttered, "C'mon, we can go downstairs."

Stepping aside, he closed the door as silently as possible once she was in the house. Tapping through the security codes and sliding home the obvious locks, he shared a glance with her, his gaze indicating that they were free to move. As one, they glided silently across the kitchen floor, the light turned out as they went. On the steps leading down to the basement, Bucky's hand found its way to the small of Natasha's back, resting there as they tread lightly. Taking a swift look at her surroundings, she could see that the open space had not changed much; the punching bag in the corner looked a little worse for wear, and she wondered if it was the captain's doing, or if her current companion had given it quite a beating once he'd gotten back. With a gentle nudge, she was guided over to the half-opened door to the bedroom. When they were safely ensconced inside, he snapped the door into place, taking a seat on the mattress of his bed, resuming his crossed-arm posture from before. She took a moment, letting her gaze run along the room that had been given over to his use. Spartan, but that was to be expected. Desk littered with notebooks, the shelving unit nearby holding a few good titles, the spread of blue sheets and quilts enfolding the bed underneath him. When her eyes glanced at the floor, she outright snickered.

"The rug is ugly," Natasha commented wryly, trying to ease the tension in some way. Following her gaze down to the orange and blue monstrosity on the floor, Bucky snorted.

"I'm aware. Believe me, we're all aware." Shaking his head, he tipped his palm out to her, the metal of it gleaming in the low lamplight. "Anytime you're ready."

Inhaling deeply, Natasha busied herself for a moment by removing her coat. A flash of heat had spiked through her, making her feel stifled. Setting it atop the desk, she smoothed down her shirt and prepared to speak.

"You wanted to know what this is. I don't have an answer for you, but I do know that I…I want it, no matter how badly it could end or if we hurt each other in the process of figuring it out," she confessed slowly, her fingers lacing together. Her teeth wanted to grit, every fiber of her being screaming at her for giving it up, for surrendering the fight. For surrendering the fight she had been losing for months. Nat never saw the point in fighting something she actually stood no chance against. It was inside of her, and inside of him, and there was no distance they could run to forget it, forget what they felt. Meeting his bright gaze directly, she murmured, "You were right; it isn't a joke, or a game, and I didn't want it...I didn't want it to make things worse. It's always gotten worse, or didn't work out in the past." She frowned, and Bucky grimaced; he'd been an unwitting witness to one of those times, knew how it had wounded her. The memory of Bruce rose again, a faint, bitter echo that no longer held any true sway on her. What she'd felt for him then was little more than a memory, one that she had not focused on for a long time. New focus had been found, unknowingly. Straightening her spine, she charged forward and told him, "But it hasn't, this time. Pulling away has. And I don't want that anymore. Maybe it's a terrible idea, but I've participated in worse ones."

"I'm beginning to understand why speeches tend to be Steve's thing," he remarked quietly, a lone eyebrow spiking and the corner of his mouth lifting. She shook her head, the lengthening red tresses of her hair shifting around her face. His eyes focused on it, then her face again as her self-deprecating smirk wore away.

"I'm being honest. Maybe I don't carry it off well, but it is what it is," she said, shrugging her shoulders. Turning, she took a step towards the desk, her eyes fastening on the pictures tacked to the wall above it. Photos from Steve's wedding, precious snapshots sent on to his friend, she surmised. She stared at the one of her, the coy wink she gave the camera at the time her disguise after a tough six weeks of blood, sweat, and tears. Pretty, picture perfect, and pristine ran through her mind. None of those words were accurate of her then, and were not at that moment, either. Looking over her shoulder at Bucky, she exhaled softly. Her mother tongue flowed out of her mouth, the truth drowning out the ingrained deception. _"Ti takaya neobichnaya. No ya ne mogu s soboy podelat'. Ya tebya khochu._ "

When she'd finished confessing her want for him, her head snapped back forward, expression unseen. The tightness in her form, though, spoke for her. The usual fluidity she adopted was nowhere to be found. Bucky, digesting all that she had said, carefully rose from his perch on the mattress. Taking a few steps forward, he watched her back stiffen further, could practically hear her brain screaming about allowing herself to be approached from behind. Fisting his metal hand at his side, he instead reached out with the flesh one, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the thin material of her shirt as it rested upon her shoulder.

" _Kak dolgo?_ " he nearly whispered, his thumb brushing back and forth, sliding from cotton to skin. The small touch made her shiver, the undetectable shake almost invisible. Pivoting on her heel, she faced him again, sea-colored eyes glinting in the low light. She raised her hand, palm laying atop his scarred knuckles and fingers hooking to hold onto him.

"For as long as you want me."

The moment lay suspended between them, undisturbed save for their breathing and the rising heat shooting between them. The air felt thick, heavy, but neither of them found it to be cloying even as they locked gazes. Heartbeats passed, thumping hard with each second going by. A sharp breath filled Bucky's chest, and then he glanced down, his hand slipping off her shoulder to slide into his pants pocket.

"… _Ya veryu tebe. Ya veryu v tebya,_ " he told her, so low that she could barely hear him. When she understood what he said, her eyes raked over him, the swell of something deep inside overriding the nerves of earlier. His bionic hand raked through his hair, the dark strands tousled and falling as he continued to stare at the ground. Sincerity laced his form as he huffed out a breath, his face twisting with it as he spoke. "You know...everything. How damaged I am. How far I still have to go. I know I don't really deserve the things I already have. But I, I can't help it. I want more."

Pausing, his blue eyes were stormy as he looked at her again. A slight tremor had wracked him, and instinctively, she reached out to him, her hand curling around his metal wrist. Swallowing hard, he twisted his arm in her grasp, sliding it so that instead she would be holding his hand once more.

"I want you, too. I just..." he trailed off, nodding his head to the sparse surroundings and down at his feet. "I wish I could give you more."

"Just give me this," she breathed, fingers shooting up and tugging at the collar of his Henley. She wasn't going to wait any longer, now that she had fully acknowledged and confessed the truth. She was so tired of waiting. Drawing him down, her lips met his, her softness enveloping his slightly-chapped warmth. She had thought to pace the kiss with him, given how he'd barely had any friendly interaction for seventy years, let alone anything with a romantic connotation. And so she did, sweet sips taken from his mouth carefully. Even so, the innocence of it was something she had not felt before, a run of pleasure from head to toe that was markedly different from pure lust. It was more than that, more than simple desire and base want. Still, when he took the initiative and opened his mouth, running his tongue along her bottom lip, she let the innocence drop. A moan rumbled in his throat as she rolled her own tongue over his, sparks and fire jumping up as he cupped her jaw, holding her close and meeting her for every stroke and slide.

"Hot damn, girlie," he gasped when they broke apart, a wide smile on his lips as their gazes met. His heart was downright rattling in his chest, and he could honestly say that was the best he'd had in seventy years.

Peering up, she smirked at him and raised an eyebrow, almost in challenge. "Movin' too fast for you, old man?"

The sweetness in his grin lessened, and that was a big enough hint for what came next. His hands, which had been cupping her face innocently enough, slid down her arms, the flesh and metal fingers grazing her bare skin and making her shiver again. All at once, his mouth crashed back onto hers, his palms jumping from her arms to her waist, bringing her flush against his body. Immediately one of her hands threaded into his dark hair, tugging on the strands and tilting his head a little. He allowed her the better access, but he met her halfway, tongue sliding along hers. Heat coursed and flowed between them, sparking as she curled her other hand into the back his shirt, arching up into him. Lips trailed away, down her jaw to her neck, open and hot as his scruff scratched her skin. Groaning, Natasha found herself being lifted up, desperate fingers clenching around the backs of her thighs. Her legs wrapped around his waist, arms slinging around his neck as she hung on. The gentle suck at her pulse point made her inhale sharply, and the moan reverberating in his chest made her insides quiver. He kissed his way along her neck, and in response, she mouthed the spot beneath his own ear, taking the lobe between her teeth and tugging on it. An electric thrill ran down her spine as he growled, his fingers digging in tightly as she rolled her hips against him.

Broken pieces, both of them, but damn were they fitting together at that moment.

The ferocity of his growl heralded the onslaught of his lips on hers, hunger and desire roaring between them. Breathless, she was left breathless for the first time in years, the thrum of her heart pounding throughout her body, his working in time with hers. Breaking apart, he caught her sharp inhale, smiling as he nuzzled along her cheek.

"Not fast enough, sugar," Bucky whispered, a shudder passing from her to him in that instant. Indulging once more in tasting her before he turned and carried her to the bed, he chuckled, and Natasha hummed in approval. She cradled him to her, secure as his body molded along hers. Whatever it was, what they had together, the labeling could wait until later.

 **xXxXxXx**

Morning dawned, and Steve was up with it. It was too ingrained in him to not be up early, to be ready to meet the day. That morning, though, he was a little groggy still, enough so that he decided to postpone his run until the afternoon. Despite having little to no effect on him, he desired coffee instead. Particularly after the night before. Bucky had been surly and silent on the way back to the house, his gentle prodding producing nothing but rolling eyes and huffs. Letting it go, the two men parted ways in the kitchen up returning to the house, with his friend somewhat deflating and wishing him a good night before clambering down to his room. Steve had watched him go, disheartened by Barnes's clear disappointment. Whatever had been said between him and Natasha, it hadn't been good. But, he didn't want to talk about it, and the captain wasn't going to push. Instead, he took himself upstairs to bed, undressing carefully in the dark before crawling between the sheets, Holly unconsciously turning over and letting her arm flop over his chest as he settled.

It couldn't have been more than two hours later that the rumble of an engine up the drive roused him from his slumber. Squinting in the darkness, he rolled over, scooping up his phone and checked the security. JJ had sent him a message; Agent Romanoff was on the property, that much access granted to her. Expecting a text for entry, he felt confusion lace through him as the screen went black in his hands. Clarity came in the form of two doors opening downstairs: the basement door and the back door. Voices were low, unintelligible, male and female trading remarks. It went on for several long minutes, and Steve bit his lip, wondering if perhaps he should go down and intervene (or at least to tell them to either take it in or out; having the door open and leaving the house susceptible in the middle of the night bothered him immensely). Suddenly, quiet reigned again, the only sound greeting his ears being the nearly silent click of doors latching into place and Holly's heavy breathing. Foot steps faded away, and he concluded that their discussion would happen downstairs. Privacy, isolation was what they wanted, and tiredly, he shrugged to himself; he could give them that, and so he resolved to go back to sleep. With one ear listening carefully, in case they decided to kill each other and he had to interfere.

Another thirty minutes went by, and a knock came at the door. Steve's eyes snapped open, and he was on his feet in an instant, treading as softly as possible so as not to wake Holly. Peering through the slight crack he'd made upon opening it, he saw his friend standing there: disheveled, a wild look in his eyes and his hips angled awkwardly away. Spiking a brow at him, it took a garbled apology and a request for protection to realize exactly how far the conversation had gone. He'd flushed, barely choking off a laugh as he swiftly darted into the bathroom. Grabbing a few foil packets out of the cabinet, he returned and passed them through the crack, pleading for Buck to be careful while getting his ashes hauled. The other man had just shot him a glare as he took the packets, begrudging thanks given as he nearly vaulted down the stairs. Shaking his head, Steve had returned to his bed, consideration of the changed circumstances keeping him awake for some time after that (that, and the occasional muffled shriek of Natasha that managed to make its way to his ears through two floors; he'd had to wrap his pillow around his head and screw his eyes shut in an attempt to block it all out so he could get some rest).

Well, given how there was no blood on the floor or damaged furniture as he crossed from the living room to the kitchen, Natasha and Bucky had not killed each other. Quite the contrary, his brain kicked up, a snort shooting out of his nose before he could stop it. Shaking his head at the basement door as he passed, he made his way to the coffee maker, pulling out the carafe and filling it. The filter and the grounds were being put in just as a creak came from overhead. Holly was awake, it seemed, and judging by the patter of her feet, she would be downstairs in a moment to join him. A yawn practically echoed down the hall to him as her shuffling gait gave her away. Waiting on the coffee to drip, he turned and rested his elbows on the counter, looking up in time to see his wife stop by the basement door. Running one hand through her sleep-tangled hair, and the other scratching at the curve of her belly, she coughed once.

Hooking a thumb at the closed door, Holly wondered, "Should we let them sleep, or should I get them up for some breakfast?"

Steve's lips quirked at that; so she did know about what had happened last night. Off the look he shot her, she rolled her eyes.

"I spotted Natasha's car outside the upstairs window, and nobody was asleep on the futon or the couch," she explained. She had slept through the arrival, but she had been jarred awake somewhat by the knock at their door. Since it had not escalated in a fight or something as distressing, she let it go without comment. Dipping her chin, she continued, "And I doubt she's prowling the property...again."

Her husband choked out a bitter laugh. He remembered the agent casing the house shortly after their purchase all too well. She was just checking for vulnerabilities, or at least that was her excuse at the time.

"She's not," he confirmed, raking a hand through his hair.

Holly blew out a sigh, coming fully into the kitchen and standing beside him. Bumping him with her hip, she smiled up at him. "So they finally figured it out."

Steve nodded in confirmation. After airing his strong suspicions about his best friend and his teammate's attraction weeks ago, Holly had expressed how little the idea surprised her. She'd had her own summation that an undercurrent was there, based on their interactions at Thanksgiving and Christmas, but she'd kept her opinions to herself, in case she was totally off-base. Evidently, she was not.

"To a point, I'd say," he equivocated. When Holly blinked in confusion, he cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, a tinge of pink burning the tips of his ears. "Enough for, well, protection being necessary."

She snickered at that, a bloom of pink in her cheeks as well. "Well, my question still stands. Should we get them up or not?"

At once, the captain shook his head, eyes wide and mouth twisting in denial.

"Trust me; Buck was a chore to wake before everything happened. I'm not risking my neck for anything less than an emergency." He lifted a shoulder, and exhaled softly. The bubbling of the coffee maker had subsided, and he turned to see the carafe had filled as they spoke. Going and fetching a single mug for himself from the cupboard (a sympathetic grin shot to his wife as she eyed it enviously), he supplied, "Besides, one or the other of them will be up soon enough."

The caffeine envy was rapidly replaced by a devious glint in her eyes, her lip bitten as she pondered something. Spying this, Steve assembled his cup with half an eye on her, wary of what she was thinking.

"So we camp out at the table and wait, then?" she posited after a moment, a corner of her mouth lifting. A barely suppressed laugh tore out of his throat as he walked away, going to the fridge and picking out a bottle of flavored water for her.

"Doll," he said, the reprimand in his tone hardly present as he returned to her side and passed the bottle to her. A finger jabbed at him, and the impish cast to her face increased.

"That's not a 'no.'"

The barest hint of a smirk came across his lips before he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"You're right," he murmured quietly, turning her towards the table and giving her backside a light pat as a prompt. "It isn't."

Mischievous glances passed between the pair, and Holly smiled slyly as she took a seat, Steve walking over to the pantry and rustling through it to find the ingredients to make pancakes. After all, if Bucky and Natasha were using his house and one of his beds to consummate...whatever was going on between them, the least they could do was have breakfast with them. Sipping at his coffee as he went, he canted his head once and got to work.

Meanwhile, Natasha's eyes fluttered open to the sounds of the feet treading across the floor above her, the clang and bang of pans followed by muffled conversation pulling her further out of the realm of sleep. The glow of the lamp burned her eyes briefly as she adjusted to it, and she breathed a moan out her nose as she arched her back. Fingers twitched over the bare skin of her stomach, legs tangled with hers under the quilts. The plates of the metal arm wedged beneath her had absorbed her heat, clicked tightly together so as not to pinch her in any way. Rolling over, she was greeted with the sight of Bucky Barnes, dark hair falling into his face as he slept. The rise and fall of his bare chest was almost rhythmic, the lines of his face smoothed as he rested. Running a palm up his chest, her thumb and forefinger tweaked the chain around his neck, sweeping over the star on his dog tag. It was the only stitch of clothing remaining on him, all others dropped away in the midst of their passion. She had been sated and satisfied thoroughly the night before, the aches and kinks he had pressed upon her welcome. What was not welcome, however, was the knowledge that she was effectively stuck down there. Having slept too long, sneaking out would be downright impossible. Unless she roused her partner in crime and made him consider options with her.

"Bucky," she whispered, poking his bicep. A snort and muffled sigh came, but he otherwise did not respond. Huffing out a short breath, she reached up, running her fingers through his hair. Relishing the tingling feeling of her nails on his scalp, he moaned a little in appreciation. Rolling her eyes playfully, Natasha tried again in a slightly louder tone. "James, wake up."

A sly smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth, and his eyelashes fluttered. "No thanks, 'm fine here."

A false, exasperated groan rolled out of her, and that got him to open his eyes. He grinned widely at her, cornflower irises lit up with amusement.

"Maybe so, but I can hear movement upstairs."

"And voices, don't forget that," he pointed out swiftly, chuckling at the slight twist of discomfort on her face. Oh, he had certainly heard Steve and Holly's deliberate movements upstairs, their speaking cadences and the muted clatter of cookery enough to shake him out of his slumber. Truth be told, he'd been woken by the first tread of steps, Steve's lumbering followed by the whir and beep of the coffee maker. Still, he hadn't wanted to get up; he was too...content, to be wrapped up with her in his bed. He reveled in the warmth and softness of her skin, her tight curves, melding them with the cut and angles of his body. Pushing the curtain of fiery hair out of her eyes, he smirked at her. "Quick escape is not on the docket for today."

"Maybe not," she conceded, a fast glance shooting up. A sliver of light was peeking through the shade covering the glass high up on the wall, an option hinted at. "Unless you boost me up through the window."

Following her gaze and raising an eyebrow to match the one she arched, it was his turn to grumble.

"That would imply that I want you to get out of here," he replied, hot flesh and cool metal constricting around her waist and locking her tightly against his body. Her stiffness had melted away, and she sank into his embrace, the pads of her fingers traipsing lazily across the bare skin of his arm, his neck. Closing his eyes and pressing his lips to her forehead, he mumbled, "And I don't."

"This isn't going to be easy, is it?" Natasha mused rhetorically, tracing over the bumps and ridges of his scars. Each had a different story attached to them, some of which she knew, some of which she had been the cause of herself (there was a slight one on his neck, a permanent burn caused by her collapsible wire two years ago). Her middle finger grazed over the ones along his left side, the branching lines from where metal was grafted onto flesh, and he let out a shaky breath. She had not shied away from them in the night, and she certainly would not do so then, it seemed. Though she already knew the answer, he was still compelled to say something.

"Nothing ever is, sugar," Bucky murmured, bending and pressing a kiss to the scar on her chest. His handiwork, though it had healed well. No, what they had would not be easy to explain, or fit into their dangerous lives. But that did not mean he did not want it, that he was not willing to work to have it with her. A chance had been given to him, and he was not about to waste it. "Not the things worth having, at least."

Once, twice, she blinked, and then she was pressing a hot, fast kiss to his lips, the hidden surge of her unspoken sentiments an underlying taste on her tongue. Another buss was dropped before she squirmed out of his grasp, throwing back the sheets and crawling off the end of the bed. The haze she'd left him in lifted little by little as he turned over, watched her pick her way across the floor to his dresser. Hypnotized by the sway of her bare hips, he had to forced himself to concentrate as she began to rifle through the drawers.

"What are you doing?" he asked, propping himself up with an elbow. A flannel came to her hand, and she gave a low mewl in delight.

"Borrowing one of your shirts," she told him, obviously shaking out the article before slinging it around her shoulders. A small frisson of disappointment laced through him when she did so, but it was replaced with another spike of pleasure. He rather liked seeing her in his shirt, even if she was practically swimming in it (he was taller than her by eight inches, roughly). Buttoning it up swiftly, she turned up the sleeves at the elbows before resuming her search. Ocean-colored eyes glimmered at him as she shot him a look. "If I'm going to be ambushed, I would like to be at least a little prepared."

By the time she found the other thing she was looking for, Bucky had sat up fully, his legs swinging over the edge of the mattress and his hands scrubbing at his face. The sheets around his hips fell a little as he stretched his back, and she could not help but watch as the line of his form grew taut and then relaxed. It was the calmest she'd ever seen him, and to know she'd had a hand in it sent a thrill through her. Natasha gave him a naughty grin as she tripped back to his side, a pair of dark green boxers dangling from her fingertips.

"Here, put these on," she told him, relinquishing the piece of clothing into his care. With a nod, he started to bend down, to retrieve his jeans from the floor, but her splayed palm on his chest stopped him. Furrowing his brow at her, she lowered her head so that her lips were almost brushing the shell of his ear when she continued. " _Only_ these."

At her single stipulation, the furrow vanished, and he chuckled almost darkly.

"I like the way you think," he said, agreeing to her plan. If they were going to be caught out, they may as well own it. They were going to wage a small battle upstairs, and Natasha was determined to win. He was glad to be on her side, in more ways than one.

"You like a lot of things I do, _Medved_ '," she remarked cheekily, a peck dropped on his cheek, his scruff buffing her lips. Flashes of the night filtered through his mind, and he growled playfully at her, snaking his hand behind her neck and pulling her down for a proper kiss.

" _Da,_ " he retorted when they broke apart. Serenity dawned on her features as she pulled away, scooping up the panties that had been tangled with his jeans and given him the chance to dress as she slid them on. Lower halves were covered, and they were ready to go. Hesitantly, almost shyly, he tipped his palm out to her as he stood, the newfound intimacy still taking some adjustment. With a small, nearly heartbreaking grin, she slid her fingers between his, metal and flesh crossing as the pair padded their way out of the room and up the stairs. Going into the kitchen, it was no surprise to see the similar shit-eating smirks on both the captain and his wife, both of them sending their greetings and gesturing for them to have a seat at the table. Plates and food were already set up there, waiting for them as they came in. Light, oblique ribbing was passed among them all, but Natasha was pleased to get a little of her own back in the form of Holly's slightly reddened face and Steve's eyes riveting to his plate to avoid staring at his teammate's disrobed state.

The dynamics had shifted once again, and all they could do was brazen it out and hope for the best. When the meal was concluded, and Bucky and Nat had all but scampered back down to his room, Steve merely canted his head to his wife, kissing her on the temple before heading upstairs to make a call. He had missed the one that had come in the night before, and the message left was broken and spotty. Still, he had been able to make out the caller's name, and so dialed in the correct return numbers. The tone rang three times, followed by a click and the canned voice of the outgoing message stating firmly that "you know what to do." The high-pitched beep coursed into his ear, and a small chuckle cracked his voice as he spoke.

"Clint, seems we're still unable to connect. Guess I have to ask you to call me back again. With any luck, I'll catch you before another week goes by. Gotta coordinate a meeting with everyone. And yes, that does include you, no matter what your paperwork says." His gaze shot out the open door of his bedroom, to the sliver of the nursery he could see through the crack. "It's important. Thanks."

Hanging up, he resolved to play the waiting game yet again. Tipping his chin up, he exhaled sharply, moving into the bathroom to shower and change for the day.

* * *

 **A/N:** Another super-long chapter for you all, whoo. :-P We got some real romantic progress on Bucky and Natasha's part, and so the pairing labeling for them shall be altered from this point out. I know some of you might not find it kosher for them to get together that fast, but bear in mind that they've had a developing relationship for over seven months by this point in the story. And yeah, they're not exactly the healthiest of individuals, but who is, really? They still have time to figure it all out; this is just the beginning, after all...

And baby kicks (slightly embellished for the sake of the story) spur more changes to come, which I have been hinting at a little. And they do involve Clint's participation, and Tony's as well. I will get more in depth with those in the coming chapters.

All Russian dialogue was done with an online translator and therefore may not be 100% accurate. Also, it's written out somewhat phonetically because I'm not going to make you guys try to understand the original language characters. They are as follows:  
 _"Ti takaya neobichnaya. No ya ne mogu s soboy podelat'. Ya tebya khochu."_ \- You are so unusual. But I can't help it. I want you.  
 _"Kak dolgo?"_ -For how long?  
 _"Ya veryu tebe. Ya veryu v tebya."_ -I believe you. I believe in you.  
 _"Medved'."_ -Bear.  
 _"Da."_ -Yes.

Yeah, Nat's nickname for Bucky is "Bear." Let that soak for a minute...Also, threw in a bit of 1940's slang for fun. If you're curious about the song they danced to, it was "Sing, Sing, Sing (With a Swing)," written by Louis Prima and performed by the Benny Goodman Orchestra—which I don't own.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.)

I know it's getting to be a common disclaimer from me, but I just want to put up a warning because it is a holiday week: next week's chapter might be late. Again, getting to be an old refrain, but I'd rather warn you guys and actually have it be on time than not say anything and leave you guys stranded for several days, wondering what's going on. That said, to my American friends: happy Thanksgiving to you all! And to my non-American friends: happy last full week of November!

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	20. Chapter 20

The alarm that morning had started it all. The _beep-beep-beep_ that had crashed through the air so many mornings in the past, but had started to rankle each time he heard it. The bed shifted as his companion rolled over, shut it off. Another roll back, and a kiss was planted on his temple, a greeting and an apology on her lips as she pushed the bedclothes off her body. Wakening further, he reached for her, but came away with nothing but air. Harrumphing under his breath, he sat up, watched as she dressed. It was imperative for her to be ready and out of the apartment within the next twenty minutes; she had sneaking out down to a tee by that point. Bright blue hair swung around her face before it was pulled back, nimble fingers raking through it and a binder securing it. Almond-shaped eyes looked at him, before narrowing in confusion. The distress and frustration he was feeling was poorly hidden that morning, and he refused to pretend otherwise, for once. When she inquired as to what was the matter, he inhaled deeply, getting out of the bed and striding over to her. When he told her, when he made his request of her staying, of leaving together in a few hours, it stung to see how fast she averted her gaze, canting her head in the negative.

Sam Wilson, it would seem, was not destined to have a good morning.

"It's been almost a year," he grumbled as he followed Kay out into the living room, the sun barely risen on that chilly, early April morning. Though the lyrics to the particular tune he was singing were varied, the chorus ultimately remained the same: he wished for their relationship to take on a more public aspect. However, she was not of the same mind. Excuses had flown from her left, right, and center for several weeks by that point, and he was tiring of it. He was tiring of her sneaking off at sunrise and assuming a persona where they were merely on friendly terms when they were beyond the walls of their apartments. "I don't think what I'm asking for is all that much."

"I'm sure you don't," she retorted, snatching up her coat from the chair she'd left it on. Cutting a look over her shoulder at him, she murmured plaintively, "I've told you why I don't want to take us public."

"You've hinted," he shot back morosely, lifting a shoulder at her. "Not the same thing."

The coat was dropped, along with her bag. Hands went to hips, and she glared at him. His eyebrows inclined, but he met her stare squarely. She may have been an agent, but he was a soldier and an Avenger. He refused to let himself be cowed by her.

"Fine, then I'll be straightforward: if people know, then they will be in our business constantly," she stated plainly. A hand scrubbed over her face, her dark eyes still holding fire even as her shoulders slumped. "I've been working for one private organization or another for almost ten years, Sam. I like people not knowing who I am. Being under a microscope, getting ridiculed just for holding your hand or even for not when we go out, I don't want to deal with that."

It was a valid point, and he acknowledged it, deep down, but to him, it was not enough of a deterrent. Not any longer. They been with each other, in their own way, for ten months. While there were no set rules at the beginning, save for keeping their liaison between themselves for awhile, their lives had altered too much to keep to that loose construct.

"It's still possible to have a private life, even in the public eye," Sam sighed. Ready examples flashed to mind, teammates and colleagues on both sides having full relationships despite the high-profile nature of their lives. It wasn't easy, he could see that much, but it was doable. "We can try, at least."

"It's still a lot of pressure, something neither of us really need," was her rebuttal, arms crossing over her chest as she took a step back. Her dark eyes cut to the floor, then back to him, a softness invading them as she drew a breath. "What we have has no pressure."

An eye roll was barely suppressed on his part, and both of them tensed visibly.

"That's not true. It's just an excuse to keep messing around and play pretend," he replied. His gaze narrowed in on her as a thought (not common, but it had occurred before) come to the forefront. "Is that all we are to you? A cheap thrill and joyride to take when you can steal away, and then you can pretend to be otherwise in the daylight?"

Her brow furrowed, her jaw hanging slack for a second or two. "No, but—"

"But what? You thought I would be okay with that indefinitely?" His hand slapped to his forehead, the other clenching into a fist at his side. He hated it, feeling that way, letting it get the better of him and shoving him off-center. It was weird, wrong, and made him feel about three different kinds of messed up. Exhaling slowly, he continued, "I'm not...I'm not that guy. I never have been."

Her gaze softened further at his pronouncement, and Kay stepped forward, coming into his personal space. Her palm rose to cup his cheek, the gentle caress of her fingers causing his eyes to close.

"No. I know you've never been that guy. I admire that about you," she confessed, the corner of her mouth curving. It was true; while she personally had problems opening up about her life, he wasn't that way. He was honest, loyal, and willing to put himself out there even when all he might get back would be a smack in the face. Swallowing, she left her hand fall to his shoulder, picking a little at the material of his shirt. "All I was thinking was that it could just be us, and no one else."

Sam took both her hands in his, thumbs sweeping over the knuckles as he gathered his thoughts.

"Kay, it hasn't been just us for awhile. Nat knew from the get-go, Holly figured it out two months later. The team's been busting my chops over us the last few months. You've met my mother, for God's sake. I've video-chatted with your dad. All that would change is admitting to this being more than a just a temporary thing."

Looking up from their entwined grips, he caught the small, miniscule flash of doubt in her eyes, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

"It _is_ more than just a temporary thing to you...isn't it?" he asked, almost fearful of the answer. Maybe it was just a game to her, after all. Or maybe she thought there was no future with him, that what they had was the only thing she could hope for. That he wasn't worth the effort, in the end. Black eyes shot up to meet his, and her mouth opened on a silent gasp.

"I..." she breathed, and then stopped, her jaw tightening.

A sickening drop invaded his stomach, and he let her hands fall from his.

"Kay." The single, broken syllable of her name wrenched at her insides, and made her sick to hear it. Sadness permeated every pore of him in that moment, and he could do no more than step back from her.

"Sam," she responded, reaching out to touch him again. The flinch of his body away from her made her pause. Her hand dropped to her side, and when she looked up at him, tears were beginning to rim her eyes. "You know that I, I..."

A palm was raised, stemming her speech.

"If you can't answer that question, maybe we should hold off on everything else. Take a break from each other, or something. At least, until you know what you want," he pronounced, each word ground out against his will. Pain and hurt pounded through his veins, but the decision reached was not one he would easily back down from. He stood there, solid, unwavering. The clock in the kitchen ticked in the almost deafening silence that followed, neither party relenting for some time as they looked at one another. At least a full minute had gone by before Kay sniffed, her eyes latching onto the coat and bag she'd abandoned earlier.

"...Fine. I'll, uh, let you know," she conceded, scooping up her things and turning. As she walked away from him, he felt another terrible lurch in his gut, and he couldn't stop himself from following her to the entryway. As she struggled to get her shoes on, he felt the heaviness landing across his shoulders. It was happening, she was going to leave, and he didn't know if she would ever come back. When her shoes were on, he was unable to help himself. Going to her, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her in for a tight embrace. Small tremors racked her slim body as he held her, her arms gripping him so hard he almost couldn't breathe. He knew how strong she was, physically (he was one of six people who knew her true identity as an Inhuman), but the emotion was something else entirely. Pressing his nose into her bright hair, he took in a deep breath, as if to commit her scent to memory.

"Look, I love you, Kay." It wasn't the first time he'd said as much, but the sentiment still held true and strong, even when things looked as though they were falling apart around him. However, even though he truly cared for her, he was not about to waver on his stance. Reluctantly, he pulled back, looking down into her face as sorrow warped it further. "But I'm getting too old for the temporary crap, and I don't wanna play pretend anymore. Just think about it, okay?"

One nod, then two, and her grip slackened, her face falling as the distance between them grew.

"I will," she promised, rising up on her toes and giving him a final kiss on the lips. It was short, chaste, and bittersweet, her mouth removed from his almost before he could respond. Removing herself entirely from his embrace, she took up her things again, inhaling deeply as she opened the door. Pausing on the threshold, she glance back at him, her face stony. "I love you, too, Sam. Bye."

The door shut behind her with a light click, and Sam tipped his head back, blowing a puff of air out of his mouth as his shoulder came to rest against the wall. The punches to the stomach was nothing in comparison to the kicks to the heart he was feeling, though all were dominating him at the moment. Sniffing hard, he scrubbed at his eyes, each thump in his chest hurting as he picked his way over to the sofa, curling in on himself as he laid across it and vainly attempted to get another hour or two of rest. The redness that had cropped up in his eyes did not fade much when he woke up again three hours later, his routine dulled by the hard ache inside him. The question of whether or not he'd done the right thing circled over and over in his mind as he dressed, ate without tasting, and locked up his rooms before heading out to the offices. His internal alarm was telling him that he was cutting it close, that he would be late for the team-wide meeting, but he could not will himself to move faster. With hands tucked into pockets, he stared straight ahead as he walked, avidly avoiding looking at anything as he made his way to the private conference room they were summoned to.

Entering the space, he focused on the coffee carafe set up in the corner, making a beeline for it. His attention was so riveted to the source of caffeine and the sudden spring of _needwanthave_ that he failed to notice or greet the other occupant of the room. A clearing throat finally jarred him out of his haze, his gaze snapping around in time to catch Natasha's raised eyebrows.

"Wow. You look..." she trailed off, her bright gaze sliding over his form before she frowned. He snorted, his mind filling in the blank with his own descriptors. Dumping more sugar than he normally took into his coffee, he missed his teammate's flash of curious sympathy. "Tough morning?"

Another snort, and he grabbed a stir stick, swishing it around a few times as he collected himself.

"You could say that," he mumbled back, shaking his head. Glancing around the nearly empty conference room, his brow furrowed. "How late am I?"

Natasha waved a hand, brushing off his concern.

"Don't worry; Captain Stickler isn't even here yet," she pointed out, the choice nickname for their leader barely making him grin. Taking stock of that, she continued, "There have been some time delays on the carrier and at the London base, so we've got a few." She gestured for him to take a seat next to her, her innocent smile not fooling him in the slightest. Gingerly, he lowered himself into the chair, and was barely settled before she crossed her arms. Looking at him intently, she inquired, "What's up?"

Sam took a healthy drink of his coffee, the hint of sugar barely registering on his tongue. "Something that may or may not require alcohol to talk about."

Her eyebrow spiked, though her tone remained smooth and even. "Still on the rocks with Kay?"

Eyes closed, and he took a steadying breath before answering, "No offense, but I don't want to discuss it right now."

As a trained counselor, Sam knew that it would be beneficial to actually talk about issues as they arose in life. He understood, all too well, the damage and risk that came with bottling things up and refusing to deal with them. However, given how fresh the pain was and the confusion he was still sorting through in his mind, he was nowhere near ready to share.

"Okay...break-up?"

"You gotta stop," he warned his friend, his sideways glance harsh. A thumb tapped at the table top before coming up with the forefinger to pinch the bridge of his nose. Maybe if he threw her some sort of bone, she would get the hint and lay off. "And for the record: not...not exactly."

Realizing too late that he had not thrown a bone, but instead fueled a fire, he groaned as Natasha's brow screwed up in thought.

"What does—"

"You know, we can always talk about you and Barnes, instead," he snapped over her, trying to disguise his frustration with a smirk. The shift in dynamic between the two ex-assassins was not terribly obvious to the public, but the team was another matter entirely. Sam had suspected something was up between them, and after the St. Patrick's Day party, it was clear that progress had finally been made in that regard. For the five days that Barnes was there, they were nearly inseparable (and while wheedling Steve had yielded few results, he did confirm that the two were some sort of item. Details, however, were something he was not at liberty to discuss, nor did he wish to, he had stated bluntly). A hot, sick flare sparked in his gut as he considered it, but he pushed through it. "How's that going, now that you've both stopped acting like blocks of ice and have grown a pair?"

Natasha blinked, and the glint in her eyes turned hard. Digging into her pocket, she withdrew a small, black leather wallet. Thumbing through it, she pulled out a single bill before pitching it towards him.

"Here's a twenty. Later, go get your alcohol and fix the attitude with it," she recommended, a sour look on her face as she stood up. As she walked over to the carafe herself, she called over her shoulder, "And we're fine. For the record."

A sharp stab of guilt washed through him, but he did not allow it to bother him too much. He had wanted her to stop, after all, and only used a tool that would get her off the subject. Mentally folding in on himself, he barely managed greetings for the other team members as they filed into the room, his gaze boring into the Styrofoam cup in hand, the coffee cooling the longer he went without sipping it. The look Steve shot him upon entering the room went unremarked, save for Natasha shaking her head and setting her jaw tightly. Maria Hill came in, her commanding presence drawing him out of his stupor as she bade the others to take their seats. Though the table had enough chairs supplied for all to sit comfortably, it seemed as though the aura he permeated around him was enough for the others to give him a wide berth. Hill head bent in low voiced conference with the captain as they both moved to turn on the equipment necessary for the meeting, eyes darting across the group and back as they did so. Shrugging it off, Sam sat up straighter, his fingers scrabbled towards the untouched bill and tucking it away as the high definition displays began to light up the far wall.

The face of Nick Fury filled one, calculation and calm filling his face as he discreetly adjusted his eye-patch. Representative Hawley filled another, the older woman looking neat and trim as always. With some rustling and adjusting on their end, the secondary team's camera blinked to life, with the one called Finesse crowing in delight as it fired up, the lens far too close to her nose and eyeball. When she back off, it was easy to see her comrades, all of them in a similar conference room set-up. The leader, Chapman, shook his head and smiled indulgently at her, his legs crossed and resting on the table top. Two laptops were also engaged, patched through to opposite ends of the country. Clint Barton, formerly Hawkeye, was there, arms crossed and an expression of faint amusement on his features as he nodded hellos to his former teammates. Lastly, the face of Tony Stark came into view on the second laptop, his dark irises dancing over each member but studiously avoiding even glancing in the captain's direction. All were connected through the private network, the first major meeting had between all branches and members of the Avengers since the initial restructuring of the organization nearly a year ago.

Given the antagonistic nature between certain members of the team, Maria took it upon herself to call the meeting to order. Though they'd all been forwarded a few informational papers, it was time to shed some light on the order of business for the coming days. Due to prompting made by the captain, the respective heads of each branch of the organization were to start looking into more extensive measures for each team. At most, there were only five or six members at a given time. While they were supplemented by a bevy of agents at each base and upon the helicarrier, it was deemed unwise to keep the registrar at that amount.

"So...you're talking about expanding the membership of our exclusive club, then?" Tony interjected, spiking an eyebrow and cutting to the chase. Hill nodded, a little perturbed that her opening speech was interrupted, but soldiering on despite that.

"Essentially, yes," she told him. The second eyebrow joined the first as she went on. "We've been looking at the numbers and the results from over the last ten months, and while we are making a great effort in aid and detainment, it is clear that there is a threat of stretching ourselves too thin. At minimum, there needs to be a rotating roster implemented to prevent this."

Fury dipped his chin, a lightning-fast look shot at Steve. The captain crossed his arms, blinking in response.

"Captain Rogers has implied that this is necessary, and I tend to agree with him," the field director stated simply, hands folding on the desk before him. "We aren't keen on losing any of you, least of all to something that is easily preventable."

"Wise decision," Hawley commented dryly, her smirk growing as she peered over the top of her reading glasses. Papers were in hand, and she was scanning them with great interest as they spoke.

"However, since this is an untested idea, we're gonna start small with the expansion," Fury iterated, another glance directed at the captain. Rogers visibly stiffened, but he kept his mouth shut. Lifting his head, he continued, "We've conferred, and a minimum of six sponsored applicants are needed for trials to commence."

"Sponsored?" Clint crowed from his end of the line, brow furrowing. It was a look similar to the one sported by Rhodey at the far end of the table. Sam, hearing that, concentrated hard on the presented information. A team expansion would help them all out in the long run, and so he wasn't about to nay-say it. The timing, though, seemed peculiar. Lighting upon an answer internally, he stared at Steve, the blond man returning it with blankness and placidity. Still, he said nothing, and so both men tuned back into the conference happening around them.

"Two team members will need to vouch for each applicant, no exceptions," Maria announced, a finger trailing over the tablet before her. "That includes all non-active or freelance members as well."

"Good to know my time kicking ass and taking names was worth something," the archer retorted, a snicker pouring out of his mouth. "Can't wait to pick my replacement."

A low hum came from Stark's camera, but he did not speak. Instead, his dark eyes lit up, and his fingers tapped along his bicep.

"Are there any other clear qualifications or disqualifications that need to be addressed?" the Vision wondered, electric blue eyes darting from screen to screen, watching the micro-expressions play out before him.

"Obviously, can't pick Johnny Everyday from around the corner, but some guidelines would be good," Chapman concurred on his end, a hand waving languidly in the air. To his left, Pietro's silvered head bobbed in agreement, before a wry twist slipped over his lips. Hill jabbed a thumb at the papers that had been set before them all, and to the digital forwards she'd sent out. Any candidates for expansion had to have training similar to or exceeding that of a standard agent, at least physically, to keep up. Specialties would be considered on a case-by-case basis, and would be encouraged. Each team had three weeks to assemble candidates, at the end of which they would be gathered at the base in New York. Trial battle simulations would take place over the course of two days, as further background and record checks would be made on each individual. The simulations would be reviewed by Hawley, Fury, and the captain, while the background checks would be conducted by Hill and two members of the board, supplemented by JJ. Psychological evaluations would follow, and by the end of the trials, determinations would be made on the candidates for placement or rejection. The goal was to have, at minimum, two more full-time members for each team by the beginning of May. Subsequent evaluations and recruitment would happen over time, but that would be the start of it.

Expansion. More people, more chances to break, to not field full responsibility all the time. A chance to be out of harm's way, out of the limelight more often. Wilson definitely liked the sound of that, a sort of cheer managing to break through the moroseness. In the end, it turned slightly sour; less time in the limelight, but there was a chance that he'd be alone when he was out of it. His melancholy did not abate as the remaining discussion of the meeting wrapped up, Hill demanding a list of prospective applicants in two weeks. As the screens powered down, and the rest of the team began to disperse (Wanda chattering animatedly about the future of the team with the Vision, who fielded her enthusiasm with a smile and good humor), Sam drew out of his inner musings. Steve was still there as well, a sort of satisfaction settling over his features as he exhaled quietly and rested his hands on the table. Getting out of his chair, the Falcon circled around to his team leader, a knowing glint in his eye as he turned his mind to other matters.

"This is what you've been planning, huh?" Sam asked, leaning against the table and smirking down at his friend. It had been hinted for several weeks that Steve had a few ideas up his sleeve for the team. All that remained were the details. Though he'd spoken very little during the discussion, the plan had his fingerprints all over it. Well, it was quite an idea, one that Wilson was willing to get behind.

"This is Plan A, or part of it, at least," the captain revealed, a ruthful grin tugging at his lips. Shrugging his shoulders, he leaned back a little in his chair, sighing under his breath. "Expansion was on the horizon, anyway; if anything, it just got bumped up a few months."

Wilson nodded at the sense of it, a portion of the sentence jumping out at him and snagging his attention.

"Just part of it?" he wondered. There was more to be done yet? What else did Steve have in store for them? He was determined to find out. "What's the second part?"

Blue eyes snapped up, an unyielding wall coming down over the irises and shielding his mind from his teammate.

"Not the right time," he intoned, his voice soft but sure. It had to happen in stages; anything done prematurely could make the enterprise fall apart. He couldn't risk that, not with so much riding on it. "We'll get to it when we get to it."

Wilson hummed, his shoulders sagging slightly in exhaustion. Well, he tried, at least; he didn't have the energy or the will to push it further.

"And if it doesn't work?"

The other man grimaced. It was a possibility, though an unwelcome one. "I've got back-up ideas waiting in the wings, just in case. One of them needs to happen by July, and one will."

Ah, Sam thought with a tempered grin, there it was. His hypothesis had been confirmed, and despite the ache and pain coursing through him, he did manage to feel a little satisfaction at being correct.

Aloud, he uttered, "Anything for your kid, right?"

The question was rhetorical. Wilson was incredibly aware of the captain's deep loyalty and care for those important to him. It would be that much greater, that much deeper for the child that was to come, for the woman he had bound himself to. In all likelihood, he would give his own life if it meant that Holly and the baby would be all the better for it. But that wasn't the idea behind the plan; it was so that he could live for them, with them, and give them more of himself and his time than he had before. At least, that was how it appeared to Sam's mind. Rotations would free him up, take him out of the public eye for longer stretches of time. There would be more defenders of the world, more responsibility on others than just on him. It was about being more of Steve Rogers, and a little less Captain America. The first steps were being taken, all of which were a product of his devotion and dedication.

"Yes," he confessed easily. Fingers tweaked the wedding ring around his finger, and a gentle, proud smile finally broke free. "Anything for my family."

Another stiff shot of envy surged through Sam's veins, though he was pleased for his friend's sake. He gritted his teeth, directing his eyes up towards the ceiling to disguise it. Steve, however, was not fooled. The other man's general malaise had hovered around him like a dark cloud, and was impossible to miss. There had been no time to ask before the meeting, but he could make time then. Training wouldn't happen until the afternoon, and paperwork could wait.

"You doing okay?" he inquired politely. Wilson shrugged, a streak of diffidence cutting over his irises. Still, he canted his head, the brokenness of his expression shoved down until he was left with something resembling placidity.

"Crazy morning," Sam murmured, dropping his gaze to the toe of his boot. For a moment, his fingers rooted around in his jeans pocket, a bill slipping out. His focus flitted to it, fastening on it as his thumb worked over the creases in the note. Watching him for a second or two, Steve inclined his eyebrow.

"Must be a fascinating twenty you got there."

The other man snorted lightly. "Sort of is."

Rogers nodded at that, rising from his chair. If Sam was unwilling to talk at the moment, he would not force him. Instead, he managed a wan smile for his friend, a finger tapping against the rectangular lump in his pocket. A reminder to call in case he needed him. Wilson inclined his chin, the message received. With a final glance, the captain scooped up his papers and exited the room. As his footsteps faded, the Falcon breathed in and out for a few moments, the churn of his mind locking him into place and staring into space for several long minutes. Deciding upon something, he pushed away from the table and strode down the hall.

"Heading out?" a smooth, feminine voice called out from the office he'd just passed. Biting back a groan, Sam looked through the open doorway. Romanoff glanced back, fingers poised over the keyboard of her computer. She was careful to keep her expression pleasant, and he felt all the worse for his behavior earlier. His problems were not caused by her. Granted, she was being nosy as hell, but he could have responded better. It was time to do damage control, the little that he could do, anyway.

"To pick up some liquor. And fix my attitude," he muttered after a few moments, her words from before making her brow quirk. Raking a hand over his hair, he met Natasha's bright gaze and shrugged. "Might get some crow to eat on the way."

The barest hint of a smile played across her lips, though she kept her expression neutral.

"I'd pay to see that," she said, standing up from her desk and walking towards him.

Waggling the bill in his hand, Sam gestured for her to come along. The pair of teammates walked side by side down the hall as he attempted a grin.

"You already did." Not exactly an apology, but it would do for the time being. With that, Natasha smirked, boarding the elevator with him and biding her time. No doubt she would ask again, he mused. He just hoped she would wait until he was in the right frame of mind to respond.

It definitely wouldn't be that day, though.

 **xXxXxXx**

At the same time in Manhattan, Tony Stark was shutting down his computer, his brain running fast as he considered the options presented to him. The barest shuffle of a shoe on tile caught his attention, and he looked up, a wry grin decorating his lips.

"How much did you hear, kid?" he asked, calling out to the teenager lurking in the shadows. Though it was Saturday, the kid was not doing inventory that day. He had sent Peter off to the training floor to test out some of the equipment they'd been updating, but clearly he had finished early. Or never left to begin with. The young man poked his head from around a pillar, canisters in hand and street clothes on. What truly stood out was the bright red flush on his face at being caught out. Stark was willing to bet that he'd never left at that point, and smirked slightly.

"Enough," Peter confessed after a moment or two. An apology was on the tip of his tongue, but Stark just brushed it off. There was no harm in it, and the kid was unlikely to talk about what he heard. Laying the canisters down on the nearest table, he began to scratch at the back of his neck, his shoes suddenly becoming a fascinating sight. "You, you thinking about sponsoring anyone?"

A superfluous question, he knew, but he couldn't stop himself from asking. Mr. Stark knew so many people; he was bound to know of someone else that would be suited to the task of protecting the world. Granted, it was none of his business, but he still wanted to know.

"You know it," the billionaire responded affably. Parker nodded at that, smiling a little. Maybe he would be willing to tell him a bit about who he had in mind, after all. Whoever that person, he could be sure that they would be amazingly talented. The Avengers deserved no less for their roster. Tony's dark brown gaze focused solely on him for a few seconds, and then he dipped his chin decisively. "You'll blow them away, Pete. We could use someone like you."

It was at that point the young man started to do a credible impression of a gaping fish. Shock outlined his face as he gawped. He couldn't be serious, could he? Tony chuckled a little, nodding again in confirmation. Oh, he _was_ serious.

Tony Stark wanted to sponsor him for team membership. _No way_.

"But I'm...I won't even be sixteen until June," Parker finally squeaked after a minute or two. He began to pace back and forth across the tiled floor, hands cupping the air and gesticulating the implications away. He barely had his learner's permit, and Tony thought that he could be an _Avenger_? "There's no way Captain Rogers will let me in to try, let alone you being able to find a second sponsor." Both he and Tony frowned, though his was more in disbelief (Tony's was definitely in distaste, but it fell away after a few moments). Eyes widened even more as he considered something else. "And my aunt...God, May will have a cow. Seriously."

Tony snorted at that, tilting his head to stare at the ceiling. "If she did, I'd be impressed. First human to spontaneously reproduce a creature of the bovine variety."

Despite his agitation, the teenager laughed a little at the picture forming in his head.

"I could get the pictures and send them to all the major newspapers," he mused under his breath. The good humor fell away all too quickly, and his pacing stopped. Facing the billionaire again, he sighed loudly. "But, still..."

A palm waved through the air, Tony cutting off his anxiety.

"We'll worry about her later. We've got the matter of finding a second sponsor to attend to first, and I know just the person," he said, retrieving his handheld from his pocket and swiping at the screen. Tapping it through to private call mode, he held up a finger to still the tide of questions sweeping out of Parker as he worked. A minute shift and click came from the other end of the line, and he grinned. "Rhodey, got a proposition for you. Come down to the city for a few days. It's about team expansion. Yeah, I got someone. I know, I work fast." He paused, the sudden shift in conversation making him pivot on his heel. With his back turned to him, Peter was able to let out the shaky breath he'd been holding, his hands raking violently through his hair to quell the shaking. Oblivious to the distressed state of his protege, Stark barked a laugh out. "Hey, it's a handy ability at times, believe me. Ask Miss October from 2008, she'll tell you. The guy I've got in mind, he's perfect, trust me."

A few more words were exchanged, with the genius securing a promise from his friend to be in the city to see the applicant, mission permitting. Smug satisfaction slid over his features as he ended the call and pocketed his device, and Peter knew that there was little chance for him to back out now.

And why would he want to? The little, rebellious part of his brain could not be hushed, the one that hungered for the opportunity to prove himself. Why shouldn't he have a chance at being part of something as grand and noble as the Avengers?

Because he knew better. Because he knew that, while the city itself was no walk in the park, defending the world was no sinecure. He was too young, too green and inexperienced, despite his forays in Queens. Peter's eyes squeezed shut as a hip connected with the edge of the lab table.

"This is never gonna work. There's still Aunt May; she's been watching me like a hawk since Uncle Ben died. And school, too. It won't work," he repeated, forcing himself to acknowledge that truth. The variables worked against him; favor was not on his side. Tony canted his head to the left, flicking a few fingers in the air.

"You'd be surprised how many ideas of mine have worked, with less to go on than what we've got. Besides, they never gave an age requirement." At that, the young man slumped onto a stool, his hands scrubbing at his face halfheartedly. Tony, clicking his tongue, strode around the steel table and came up beside him. He looked down at the kid, really looked at him. It was just the opportunity he'd been waiting for, just the excuse he needed to showcase the kid's talents. Peter, while young, was a good candidate. He was certainly better than most; he still had ideals, strong integrity, a greater sense of hope and belief in the world around him. In fact, his youth perhaps made him a more desirable applicant; he could be trained in, become a legacy of sorts to invest in for the future. Parker would do well, his potential was unlimited at that point. He had to put in his bid, had to put in a bid that would be worth the time. Peter would be far worthier than some, dark clouds gathering in his mind as he considered just who else could be brought in. Shaking his head to dispel the sudden anger, he clasped the teen's shoulder, drawing him out of his concerns. Carefully, quietly, he intoned, "C'mon, Pete. You want to do some good; this is a chance on a global scale to do so. At the very least, this will put you on the radar for the future."

A long stretch of silence passed, Peter's brain working furiously through all that he had heard and had been told. Weighing the decisions internally, sorting the pros and cons of the deception, of using it to get him somewhere to serve the greater good. Stark was biting the inside of his cheek as he waited, his breath held when the boy eventually inclined his head.

"...Okay," he finally agreed, hands wringing together in his lap. Inwardly, he resigned himself to his fate, resolved to put some faith and trust into Tony's plan. Maybe it could work out. They just had to get the details determined first. "So what do we do if we get Colonel Rhodes' approval? How do we bypass, I dunno, background and security checks? And everything else?"

"Leave all that to me," Tony told him. Those matters would be quick fixes, to his mind. Rhodey just needed to see him in action, and he would (most likely) have to hold himself accountable for the boy's conduct. Everything else, there were ideas being mocked up and consulted in the back of his mind. A few solutions came to the fore, and he smiled. Clapping the kid on the shoulder—he no longer shook under such embraces; the kid was as solid as stone—he remarked confidently, "You won't regret this, Parker."

"I hope not," Peter replied, mock acerbity in his voice. Risking a glance up, he let a glimmer of the exhilaration that was brewing deep within shine through. A tiny grin cropped onto his lips as he grabbed up the abandoned canister, a finger tracing along it. "This is kinda exciting. Getting a chance at working with you guys, with the Avengers...it'll be a real honor. Even if it's just simulations."

Stark wrinkled his nose, a groan rumbling in his chest.

"Do me a solid, and please don't regress to the hero worship," he pleaded, grabbing at a high definition display nearby and booting it up. Accessing the carefully coded design plans for Peter's equipment and suit, he implored the teen, "We just got you broken; I can't go through the potty training again."

Peter truly smiled then, and his heart began to thump even harder in anticipation and excitement as plans began to filter across the screen.

"No promises, Tony," he mumbled, dragging his own finger over a plan and enlarging it, the two prepared to work hard at the new project for the rest of the afternoon.

 **xXxXxXx**

"You know, you might just snag a nomination for expansion."

Bucky scratched at the stubble on his chin, a low sigh echoing over the speaker of the phone. Although Natasha couldn't see it on her end, he knew better than to expect her to think he'd greet the idea cheerfully.

With the shift in their relationship, it meant that there would be an inevitable change in his life. Hers was now so entwined with his that there would be no simple way out. However, it had seemed she was just as willing, just as eager as he to be part of it. They were still figuring it out, but the five days he had in New York were enough time to allow him some idea of what they were doing. That they were together was of no doubt, from that morning after on. Labels were not applied, purely for safety's sake; with her working as an Avenger, and him working to eradicate his previous status as a HYDRA assassin, it was best not to give the outside world any idea of what was going on. Someone could get in their heads that they could be used as leverage against one another. Bucky nearly snarled when he thought of that. If someone ever did think to use Natalia in such a way, he would make sure they would regret it for the rest of their lives. And she would definitely do the same, were the situation reversed. Therefore, they'd kept their...affection...to themselves, the only others privy to it being Steve and Holly, and the team (Wanda's eyes had grown wide as saucers when she'd caught some of his thoughts, before muttering about how it was time for them to get their act together).

Those five days were like a dream. A weird, strange dream in which the woman he cared for had pinned him into submission on the training mat during sessions more often than not, but it was better than what usually visited him in the night. At least there was more to be had than cold fear and loneliness when she did that. As it was, he was back at work, just off a scouting mission in Greece. The tracker placed on the escaped doctor's van had pinged there, just outside of Athens, and Bucky was sent with his team to retrieve it. The doctor had long since vanished, but traces of metals and chemicals were present in the van, indicating she had transported goods during her escape. Tracking the particular ones, especially if there were picked up and sold in mass quantities in a certain area, could expose her. Fury had fallen on the opportunity to do so, his specialists summoned to deal with the task.

That left Bucky's evening wide open, and he had used it to his advantage. He had a girl, and he damn well was going to call her.

Which brought him to that moment, that minute in which pleasantries were exchanged, events of the day shared. Evidently, the organization was looking to take on more members. And she, clearly, thought he would be one of the best suited to the task.

"Unless there are more stable, more qualified applicants," he pointed out, flopping back onto his bed and wincing. Some bruising on his lower back bothered him, but it couldn't be helped at the moment. "Which we both know there are."

"If they were truly stable, they wouldn't be applying in the first place," she joked, her voice warm and light. He barely hummed at her statement, let alone laughed. A puff of air crackled in his ear, and a shift of cloth came after. Reckoning she was perched upon her own bed, he paused as she gathered her thoughts. "James, this is literally what you've been training for, working for. I mean, not the exact opportunity, but...you had to know the endgame Fury had in mind for you. Or even what Steve had hoped."

That time he did laugh, though it was dripping caustically.

"It didn't escape my notice. I just question the sense of it, if I do get a sponsor." He shrugged to himself, crooking an arm behind his head. "Whoever that person is."

"Favoritism prevents me from being that person, unfortunately," she confessed, and he tutted in mock sympathy. Chuckling a little, she continued, "Same goes with Steve, even if he were able to do so. Still, you may be surprised who might come a-callin'. You're not as low as you think, _Medved_ '."

His mouth curved at the corner, the pet name thawing out the coldness settling over his heart. It faded away as he thought about it all.

"Maybe not. Do I deserve it, though?"

It was a question he often pose to himself, in spite of his therapist's assurances that he need not do so. Did he deserve the chances he'd gotten over the last year and a half? Odds were, he didn't; after everything he'd done, he reckoned he was more suited to being tortured and shot by a firing squad with extreme prejudice. Yet there he was, working for a branch of the Avengers, cracking down on people who were as he used to be, and discussing a future wherein he could do more. Bucky had his moment of quiet, of Natasha's airy breaths in his ear before she spoke up.

"Less than some, but more than others," she responded, driven to honesty. Visualizing her pushing her hair from one side to the other, he closed his eyes and listened to her. "You chose to seek a path to redemption. Well, this could be another turn, if you get nominated. Will you take it?"

It banked on an 'if.' Since she could not do it, nor Steve, it fall on the others to make the decision. Each one of them was just as aware as he of the predicament, just as aware of his position and the trajectory of his path.

"If it's offered," he replied. There was no sense in denying it. While he did think it would be a risk to even entertain the notion of letting him on any team, he wasn't going to say no if he was given the chance to do so. It would be another step forward, another step towards cleaning his record and helping eradicate some of the spots on his soul. While he was doing good work for Fury, it felt as though he was not being utilized to his full potential at times. Maybe if he worked directly with the team, that could change. The set of his face hardened, and his tone turned a touch darker. "And if it is, I won't hold back."

It would be another chance, a greater one than those that had come before. Well, some of the ones that had come before. It wold be foolish to not give it his all, if the offer was presented. Her hum of approval glided over the line, and the quirk of his lips returned.

"Besides, any chance to be closer to you, I'll take, sugar," he riposted swiftly, his heart thudding in his chest at the notion. It had been a little over a week since he'd last seen her, held her, and it ate away at him. Not that he'd let on to anyone but her, of course; he did have a reputation as a cold, stony agent. It would not do to lose that so quickly. Still, he could gladly welcome the idea of being nearer to Natasha in any capacity.

Her grin was downright audible over the phone. "Should I be planning a visit to the HR rep for the future?"

"Pick the date, and I'll meet you there," he promised. Details on the exact connotations were fuzzy (there were other important things to worry about in his life), but he could surmise that a trip to human resources regarding his relationship with Natasha would merit some interesting results. She laughed, truly laughed, the joy in her reverberating straight to him. She rarely showed amusement out in public, and it made him feel as though he accomplished something great by making her do so.

"You'd scare the hell outta the guy," she crooned, the mental image in her mind causing her to chuckle again. "I'll definitely let you know."

"Thanks, dollface," he supplied, laughing to himself at her sudden groan. That name, she did not like, but he couldn't help himself. Rolling over onto his side, another thought occurred to him, and he smirked to thin air. "Frankly, I think you'd scare him more than I could."

"Oh, you sweet-talker, you," she said, mocking praise in her voice. From there, the conversation drifted away, to her bemoaning the new bracers she had and how they were misfiring during team training. He responded with the news that his cybernetic arm was starting to twitch, an indication that something was wrong internally with the hardware. He would see to it in the morning, and she admonished him to do so, at the risk of facing her wrath if he failed to get it checked out before his next mission. ("Or the next time I talk to you, whichever comes first. My money's on the call, though, so you better get it taken care of.") A faux shiver shot down his back, and he reported it to her, with her telling him he should be afraid, indeed.

"Call me tomorrow," she demanded, gently, when he went to end the call. Reading between the lines, he could sense the sentiment she was not expressing. _I miss you._

A rueful grin tugged at his mouth, and he passed a hand over his face, the pull in his chest difficult to ignore.

"Count on it," he pronounced carefully. _I miss you, too._

A dull click came, and the line went dead. The phone was dropped onto the sheets beside him, and Bucky turned all the way over, face buried into his pillow and arms curling around it. It was poor substitute for the body he wished to be holding, for the warmth he was aching for, but it would have to do in the interim. That, and the memories of her closeness. He did not know how long he was curled up on his bed, half-dozing as the metal arm ticked and twitched beneath him, but it was long enough for him to be jarred out of it by a chime on his computer. The laptop had been opened in case Natasha was not available to take his call; he had planned on watching another movie on his list if she could not be reached. As such, it left his video chat program open and awake. Few people had the handle he used, and he doubted Nat would call him back so soon. The list in his head of potential contacts was rifled through as he rose, grumbling and ruffling his hair as he strode over. Fingers tapped away, swiping over the track pad to accept the call. Soon enough, the screen was flooded with light, though it settled soon afterward. The screen was split, two different faces peering out at him from the group chat he'd accepted. Furrowing his brow, he was met with the playful stoicism of Pietro Maximoff on the right, and the serious composure of Wanda on the left. She and her brother had been in mid-sentence, the Slovak cut off as soon as they noticed the presence of the third party. As one, they greeted him, and he managed to reply politely enough. However, when the time came for the small talk to commence, neither sibling engaged. Rather, Pietro leaned forward in his seat, the playfulness melting away as he nodded at the camera. Taking his cue, the auburn-haired woman brought her hands to rest in front of her, her spine stiffening and her green eyes focusing intently. He stilled in his seat, mouth shut tight as he waited for one or the other to speak.

"Bucky, we need to talk," the female Maximoff announced, another fast look shared with her brother. "About team candidacy. I'm sure you've probably heard."

A hard swallow coursed down his throat, and his metal arm went slack for the first time in hours. The 'if', it seemed, was turning into more.

Coughing once, he gestured to the camera, settling back in his chair. "Yeah, I did. I'm all ears, Wanda."

* * *

 **A/N:** So we get a little insight into Steve's plan that has been hinted at. One of them, anyway. Bringing on more and newer members could spread the load, ease up the need to have him in the field, etc. Again, it's just part one of the plan, and it's all going to be executed in stages. How fast those stages are executed, though, remains to be seen. And again, this is Sam's understanding of the plan. There are a few things that he is still unaware of.

Not as frightfully long as the last chapter, so I hope that's okay with you all. Things are going to vamp up a little over the next couple of chapters, or at least I intend them to. ;)

And I know, I'm a jerk for putting Sam through emotional turmoil. It will be resolved...eventually...Meanwhile, the Bucky/Nat train is chugging along, slowly but surely. :)

Yep, Tony is going to get Peter sponsored. For a controlled-setting tryout...as opposed to, you know, bringing him to a full-scale superhero fight taking place at an airport after first coercing him to come along and lying about it to everyone around the both of them. Yeah, it's probably a good thing that Tony doesn't have any children in the MCU universe (that he knows about, so far). That's not intended as a full-on rag on Stark; it's just that some of his choices are questionable, and shall remain so, no matter what universe he's in. A lot of the team's choices are questionable, to be honest.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.)

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	21. Chapter 21

With careful hands, the laptop was rotated in a circle, the camera panning and redirecting the view to the recipient on the other end of the video chat. The dark-colored crib, set far away from the window with its patterned top sheet and bumpers, flitted by, followed by the changing table. A small dresser was along the opposite wall, a lamp with Mickey Mouse at the base perched atop it. The rocking chair was in one corner, and had cushions similar to the light green of the walls. The corner close to the closet had a small fan pushed into it, plugged in and ready to go. The closet itself had been cleared of the items it had been housing prior to the room's redecoration, and was instead being slowly filled with tiny clothes and a few toys. The laptop circled once more, and then it was carried back into the office next door, the owner of the device placing it back on the desk with aplomb.

"And that was the baby's room," Holly pronounced, one hand going to her belly as she sat down in the chair before it. Once she settled, she flicked her fingers in the air and smirked at the camera. "There, showed you, as promised."

In the video chat screen, the woman on the other end shot her a similar grin, the resemblance between them all the more accentuated.

"Thank you for being so gracious," Heather, Holly's sister, retorted. She'd been prodding her to show off the progress being made in the house for the upcoming arrival, but she'd been fobbed off with excuses for awhile. Now that the last piece of furniture had arrived and put together (the dresser, which was much easier to assemble than the blasted crib had been), Holly was willing to let her see it all.

Holly snickered at her, and lifted a shoulder demurely. "I try."

Heather sat back in her chair, pleased to see the final result. The sisters let the conversation turn away from the state of the nursery, instead returning to the main objective of the pair catching up. The elder Martin sister was in the midst of giving her students their final projects for the year, everything gearing up to the summer. That year, she was intent on taking some time off, ready to devote her days to actively enjoying herself and her family. Jake was doing well, it seemed—well enough to hear him laughing in the background as he played with their boys, both of them old enough to run and dart away as he pretended to be a monster coming after them. Asking after the progress of Holly's novel, she was doubly pleased to hear about how the editors had determined that only a few minor tweaks were needed before they started looking at marketing options. A book tour was out of the question, but there was no reason why Holly wouldn't be able to start spreading the word through social media, once the designs and date to sell were picked. Inevitably, though, the cycle brought them back to the subject of the younger Martin sister's pregnancy (Heather knew, from experience, that she was probably a little tired of talking about it, of being treated like a human incubator, but she couldn't help herself).

"So, the end of the second trimester," the older woman stated, noting the progress of the younger aloud. The news of her little sister's pregnancy was quite stunning when their parents had sent on their reveal gift, but now that it had settled, it was exciting. Though they did not speak in person often, she had been keeping in touch via texts and emails, trying to keep herself in the loop for Holly's sake. Looking at her now, though, she would be better able to gauge the reality of the situation. "You're almost in the homestretch, Holl. How are you feeling?"

Her head tipped from left to right, and a small grin decorated her lips.

"Pretty good. You know, a little achy, a little uncomfortable, and sometimes it feels like he's camped out on my bladder, but well, you know."

"Uh-huh." Brown eyes, a few shades lighter than her sister's, raked over her face. Brows inclined, and Heather asked, "So how are you feeling, really?"

The smile on Holly's face wavered, and after a few seconds, she dropped her head into her hands.

"...I'm freaking out. I'm gonna be a mom in a little over three months. I'm going to be responsible for a tiny human life. A little baby whose father risks his neck on an almost daily basis." She inhaled sharply, her hands falling into her lap and revealing the contorted anxiety of her expression. "Not to mention, I've left the television remote in the fridge no less than three times without any memory of when I put it there." And then there were the awful mood swings, the almost-constant state of hunger she was in, no matter how much she'd already eaten, which tied into the cravings that were still throwing her for a loop—mustard on chocolate cookies should've made her gag (Steve nearly did when he caught her ingesting some, and he'd eaten some truly nasty things in the past), but it was good, for some reason. Combined with the stress of her job and the continued editing of her book, it was all bearing down on her. "I'm losing my friggin' mind. How I'm able to file anything at work and yet still do that is beyond me. How can I do that with a baby? Holy crap, I'm terrified."

Her sister nodded sagely even as Holly let her forehead flop down to the desktop, a slow whine crawling out of her throat. A tiny creak came from the hall beyond the door, but neither paid it any mind.

"I bet," Heather said, commiseration in her tone. Waiting a few moments, she eventually asked, "Feels good to admit to it, huh?"

Despite herself, Holly felt her lips curl up slightly. The ignored weight on her shoulders felt a bit lighter than before, she couldn't deny it.

"A little," she admitted, shaking her head. Combing her fingers back through her hair, she muttered, "I don't know how Mom did this three times. Or you, twice."

The older sister shrugged, an inelegant gesture.

"It's hard to describe; each time is different. But I was scared to death before Cole was born," she professed, tilting her head to the right. Shooting a glance upward, she cupped a palm in the air. "Don't even get me started on pregnancy brain."

Both of them shared a rueful smile at that.

"Remember when you realized you'd bought six jars of mayo after having him, because you thought you kept running out?" Holly recalled, struggling to hold down the laughter. "And then the repeat with Ryan?"

"With Ryan, it was Sriracha sauce." Momentarily distracted, Heather mused aloud, "Why the hell did I think I never had enough? I barely use it as it is." Violently, she shook her head, pulling herself back to the present moment. Pinning her gaze onto her younger sibling, she leaned back in her chair. "Anyway, not the point I was trying to make. What I'm trying to say is, despite all that, things will change when he's there and you're holding him. You'll change."

She eyed her little sister's dubious glance, the tense set of her body. And, even though the camera on the computer was not at its highest settings, there still was a small spark of hope in her features. Under the outright fear, that was.

"As scary as it is, you're not alone, Holly. You've got Steve, and the both of you have us. All of us. Even all the way out here," she concluded, gentling her voice the tiniest fraction. A few seconds passed, and Holly's chin dipped, a small nod bouncing her head.

"I know, I know all of that. It's just..." she trailed off, risking another look at her sister. Blowing out a short breath, she murmured, "Sometimes I need the reminder. Family has to be good for something, right?"

"Yep. We'll watch out for you all," Heather promised staunchly. She'd read the speculation in the media about her soon-to-be-born nephew, had found the tasteless and crass words bandied within the genuine well-wishes, and was nearly ready to go hunting on her sister's behalf. Fortunately, Jake had talked her out of doing so, but she still was adamant about standing with her family. A thought occurred to her, and her jaw ticked. "I'll definitely do so, if for no other reason than to have the chance to give the kid his first noisy toys. Consider it payback for your husband's influence on my eldest."

Holly scoffed aloud, eyebrows quirking and ill humor forgotten for the moment. "It's not like Steve told him to throw stuff around the house!"

Heather pretended to consider her argument for a minute or two, tapping her finger against her chin, before clicking her tongue.

"Nope, not gonna fly. Too many plates have been chipped and broken," she decreed, an evil smile coming to her lips. "There is this real nice plush dog that sings the ABC's and _Old MacDonald_ on interminable loops that I think will do nicely."

"Oh, damn," groaned the younger sister, pinching the bridge of her nose and blowing a sharp breath out of her mouth. From there, the siblings moved off the topic, eventually saying their farewells and departing to engage in their separate evening routines. Meandering downstairs, she made dinner, calling Steve up from the basement when it was ready. He'd actually only had a half day at the base, filing reports and conferring with Maria over the upcoming trials. The last several hours had been devoted to a painting he'd been working on for awhile, splotches liberally coating his hands and forcing him to wash up first. Claiming their spots at the table, they chewed in silence for several minutes, each one having much on their minds.

"So...tomorrow," Holly commented lightly, tentatively bringing up the subject when she couldn't stand the silence any longer. The next day was the beginning of the scheduled try-outs for the potential new recruits. Three weeks had passed quickly, the choices made and the candidates either already bunking at the base for the night or on their way. Over the course of three days, the applicants would be put through simulations, exams and interviews, a process meant to determine their placement and their worth of being considered. As such, Steve would be performing several of the evaluations himself, with the help of Hill, Hawley, Fury, and others. Privately, she speculated whether or not they knew about the word circulating around the base, about the agents conspiring to actively set up seating areas for the outdoor simulations and watch as the candidates duked it out. Or if he knew that she herself would be doing so on her lunch break, eager to watch the action unfold.

"Yeah, tomorrow," Steve replied. His fingers fidgeted with his fork, his eyes focusing as he pushed food around his plate. "It'll be...interesting, to have everyone all in one place."

It would be the first time in months that the primary team, as a whole, would be together, minus a few obvious exceptions. The first time since the fallout in December. To have Tony Stark willingly return to the base after all that had happened was nothing short of 'interesting.' Holly snorted low as she pondered it.

"That's one way to look at it," she mumbled. Glancing at her husband, she chanced a small grin and wondered, "You think you'll need back-up? I still have the bat, and the Taser, if you do."

Truthfully, she hoped that it wouldn't come to blows, physical or otherwise, when Stark arrived, but she could not rule out the possibility. Her heart thumped as she thought about the residual anger that was in him in January, and how much of it would still be there when he eventually interacted with Steve. Joviality aside, it made her a little anxious. A low chuckle vibrated in Steve's throat as he pondered the point, and his eyes brightened considerably at the suggestion.

"I think we'll make it through," he told her, lifting a shoulder as his gaze darkened again. "So long as Bucky doesn't approach Stark, it should be fine."

Her nose wrinkled. It would be impossible for the potential candidates to avoid any of the team, as they all would be either guiding them through simulations or evaluating them. Barnes staying out of Tony's way was improbable, at best.

She shot him a deadpan look. "...I'm still bringing the Taser with me, just in case."

He snickered at that, though the humor did not quite reach his eyes. "Whatever makes you feel better, dear."

Regarding him for a moment, she tipped her palm out on top of the table, her fingers wiggling at him. Comprehending what she was silently asking for, he slid his hand into hers. Squeezing once, her dark gaze swept over him for a moment before she directed her attention back to her plate. The last bites of her meal were finished, and she squeezed his hand a final time before rising from her chair.

"You're lucky to have me around, ready to defend your honor," she pointed out, raising her chin with facetious pride and prodding his bicep as she passed. She patted her belly as she placed her fork and plate in the sink. "Even when pregnant."

A real smile came to Steve's lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at her.

"Very lucky," he concurred, gathering up his dishes and bringing them over to wash. As he went about the task of cleaning up, she moseyed out to the living room, switching on one of the "dress shows" that got on her husband's nerves and indulging herself. As the girl onscreen was describing how she'd met her fiance, Holly's eyelids began to droop, and she nestled into the cushions of the couch. She'd just rest her eyes, listen to what was going on for a bit, and then get back up again. Tucking a pillow under her head, she was asleep in seconds flat. As her breathing became steady, Steve came into the room, his chore finished and his gaze darting from the television to his snoozing wife. Shaking his head, he sat down on the arm of the sofa and exhaled softly. Reaching out, he tucked some loose strands of her hair behind her ear before drifting to rest on her shoulder. His features twisted contemplatively, his palm absorbing her heat as he thought. Though he hadn't let on, he had overheard the fears she expressed to her sister through the office door, her voice catching him as he was making his way downstairs with some discovered art supplies from their closet. His heart had constricted at the thought when he'd sneaked away, not wanting to be caught out. Doubt may have racked her, but it didn't do so for him; he knew her, knew her potential in other facets of life. That she would be a good mother was something he knew was true, in his gut. She'd already taken such good care of him, and she would do so much more for their son. Steve brushed his fingers across her sleeve, and sighed.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered to his dozing wife, bending and pressing a featherlight kiss into her hair before he went back down into the basement. It was a reminder not just for her, but for himself as well. They would be alright; they would find a way to make it work, together. There was no need to fear the future. The present was enough to worry about, for the moment.

 **xXxXxXx**

The morning of the trials dawned, and the air around the base crackled and fizzed. The new arrivals were all on site, the agents eager to catch a glimpse of the chosen few who were to be vetted for team placement. However, the most they were able to see were flashes of people being shuffled between rooms, the Avengers themselves acting as blocks to give the new people privacy. Rumors were flying as to the prospectives' identities; some where speculating that they had been rejects from the old days, when the Avengers Initiative was first introduced, while others maintained that they were all Inhumans meant to weed out the weaker members. A few were positing that, with Representative Hawley coming in, the United Nations had made all the selections, and the team would be forced to put up with the choices. Power was shifting, shifting away from the top brass, and there was nothing they could do about it. For his part, the captain ignored the rumors, though he was not about to deny the measure of truth some of them had. Instead, he walked onto the base with his head held high, a parting kiss given to his wife before heading over to the training facility.

"Now that we've got a full list of applicants, let's check 'em out," Steve said, having suited up prior to meeting with Hill, Fury, and Hawley. The four were perched high up, watching as the applicants filed one by one into the room below, followed by the team members selected to engage as leaders in the trials. Through the windowed walls, they could see the assembly of the simulation field, several vehicles in need of repair and other obstacles set up for the participants to work around when they were sent out. The base director walked over to the railing of the upper walkway, peering down into the training room below. Her ever-ready tablet came to hand, and she started tapping through it as she spoke.

"First is Scott Lang, former VistaCorp employee and cat burglar. Graduated with a master's in engineering. Criminal record reflects more altruism than what appears on the surface; Everheart's interview certainly did him no favors, but the truth is on the page," Maria noted wryly. Proffering her tablet, she waited as the representative and the other director flanked the captain as he scrolled through the digital documentation. "Served his time in San Quentin, was released early for good behavior. Hank Pym spoke highly of him; evidently, he helped him out with retrieving some misappropriated property, and thereby gifted him with his specially-designed suit."

Risking a glance over the railing, the trio sized up the fellow. He was chatting with Sam, his posture loose as he tipped his head from side to side. He had not switched out for the suit in question, was instead in his civilian wear. Black hair was tousled and he yawned widely, as though he'd rolled out of bed minutes before he was required to meet up with the others.

"Who endorsed him?" Fury asked, bringing Rogers out of his private musings.

Maria allowed herself a small smile. "Wilson and the Vision. Turns out he made quite an impression with both of them when he turned up here last summer. Barton was fortunate enough to catch a flight out with the guy; apparently, he's the definition of awkwardness. And speaking of Hawkeye, his and Romanoff's applicant is up next."

Next on the docket was Kate Bishop, one of Clint's personal proteges. She'd never been a proper SHIELD agent, but she had been a contracted operative from time to time...which was amazing, given her family's standing as prominent business owners. Barton had taken to training her personally when she sought him out for asylum seven months ago, a personal tragedy pushing her out of her home and out of herself (which, in turn, prevented him from going crazy with boredom out in the sticks, or at least that was Hill's conjecture). Her proficiency in hand-to-hand combat surpassed only by her skill with a bow. If given the chance, she could very well take up the title the archer had abandoned months previously—it was why the fellow had come across the country with her, to put her through the trials and to see if she could take up his mantle.

The next applicant was another woman, an Emily Guerrero. She had been up for consideration the year beforehand, but due to her abilities bearing similarities to Wanda's, it was ultimately decided that they would bench her for the time being. Now, though, she was ready to make a bid again, with Crystal and the Swordsman both advocating her right to try. Another casualty of the Inhuman wave, the native Bronx resident had spent the better portion of the last year honing her abilities. Her skills ran towards telepathy and brainwave manipulation, but she was skilled in martial arts (she'd achieved black belt status at a remarkably young age, and had maintained her prowess). The pair of young ladies were eyeing one another across the training room, brown eyes meeting hazel and widening significantly.

The side door opened again, and in spilled Bucky, Natasha at his side and smirking up at him. Steve felt a form of pride sweep through him as he stepped onto the mat, guided by the redhead towards her best friend. He let Maria speak over him, give Hawley the abridged version of his status and resultant efforts towards redemption. Rather, he focused for a moment as Clint flicked a glance between the looming man with dark hair and the female Avenger. It was doubtful that Natasha had told Barton about the shift in her relationship with Bucky, but it seemed that Hawkeye was able to put two and two together on his own, if the smug grin he sported was anything to go by. Inwardly, he was just thankful that Clint had chosen not to pick a fight over his friend's honor; he had no desire to jump into that fray. It would make Wanda and Pietro's bid a waste, then. Moving onto the fifth applicant, who was Union Jack and Finesse's choice, he had to take a second look at the tablet. The codename was listed, but the subsequent information was still a bit baffling.

"Chapman's bid is supplemented by both Hawley and you?" Steve inquired, spiking an eyebrow at Fury. The other man merely nodded, a fast look shot to the representative. Turning to face her, Rogers could see the confident, nearly smug set of her face as she met his gaze.

"For good reason," she intoned, looking beyond him over the railing for a second. Following her line of sight, the captain felt his brow furrow as a new occupant entered the training facility. It was a younger fellow, followed by appeared to be two female bodyguards. The ladies were imposing, yet with a hushed command, removed themselves to rest along the far wall and remain unobtrusive. The young man stood tall, back straight and his bearing formidable. Dark eyes glanced over the others, the expression on his face a cross between stoicism and a form of quiet friendliness. He was already in his gear, black armor like a second skin and scored with what appeared to be tribal markings. In his hand was a helmet and mask combination, ready to be donned at a moment's notice. His movements were languid, fluid as he stepped onto the mat, greeting the gathered applicants and team members politely, nods and and respectful glances passed around (the one called Scott looked about ready to wet himself when his turn at introductions came). When his profile turned to face the upper walkway fully, Steve inhaled sharply; he recognized the man. To his right, Hawley bowed her head, a previously-devised signal to invite the fellow up to meet with them. Carefully, he picked his way across the floor, striding up the steps with alacrity.

"May I present T'Challa, Prince of Wakanda, Captain Rogers," the representative introduced him as he approached. Stopping a few feet before them, the younger man inclined his head to each. With a small curve coming to her mouth, Hawley continued, "His father has been one of your most avid supporters on the world stage."

Tongue-tied, it was all Steve could do to return the genuflection and nod respectfully at him. Gently, the prince grinned at them all, his serious facade eased back slightly.

"It is a pleasure to meet you all," he said, accent rolling over his words, the cadence mesmerizing and soothing all at once. "I have been an admirer of yours as well, and I wish to contribute to your cause."

He extended his hand, a goodwill gesture of the nobility to the layman. Steve accepted it, giving it a swift shake and meeting him halfway.

"Your Highness," he greeted him. Tipping his head to where the applicants were still waiting, he murmured, "Thank you for coming. Provided you can keep up with the other candidates, we'll be glad to give you the opportunity to try."

"Thank you, Captain," the royal replied. His polite grin turned a touch more feral, and his dark eyes held a deeper promise than they had mere seconds ago. In his form, it was plain to see that he was ready, and willing, to meet the challenge presented to him. "And believe me, I can do more than keep up."

A final nod and greeting was directed at Hill and Fury before the prince excused himself, the strength in his step echoing around him as he went back down to the training room. Rogers watched him go, hands resting along the buckle of his belt and a sharp exhale blown out his nose.

"This can't be good internally for Wakanda," he muttered to Hawley, who gave him a blank stare. It was deliberate, he knew that much, but still he would say his piece. "He's the heir; this position will put him in danger."

"This could be a public relations nightmare," Maria supplied, remembering her time as Stark's assistant. After doing that, plus fielding and performing relations for the Avengers, she knew what she was talking about.

Fury snorted, his eyebrow inclining a fraction. "From what I understand, fighting out here is a lot tamer in comparison to the jungles there. I've seen the kid in action; trust me, he's worth a shot, no matter the politics." A brief flash of memory flitted over his vision as he recalled the session the king had invited him to. T'Challa had been trained from childhood in combat, and it was clear when he easily felled men twice his height and size. Shrugging, the director went on, "Furthermore, his father is supporting it fully; he can handle the public relations aspect."

With Hawley's concurrent nod, there wasn't much else to do but let the point slide. Arguing it would get them nowhere. Motioning for Maria to pick up where she'd left off with the recruit roster, Steve settled a hip against the railing and waited.

"And last is Stark's bid, but...they're late," Maria reported, glowering at her tablet for a moment. "With everything, including showing up. We have only a codename, height, weight, and listed enhanced abilities." Off the ring of frowns surrounding her, she cupped a hand in the air. "Something's screwy with the drive he sent us; it codes and rewrites every time it's plugged into the server, and only shows that much information."

Fury and Rogers shared a loaded glance in the silence that followed, both of them not liking the sound of that.

"We probably shouldn't admit his choice, even with Rhodey's endorsement," Hawley intimated, wary of the billionaire's machinations. Stark Tech was incredibly difficult to corrupt or manipulate, so the fact that he handed over an inherently damaged piece was suspect, at least. The captain's lips thinned, and he focused on a distant point, thinking on the options presented to them furiously.

"Probably not, but if we don't, we're one short of requirement and we'll have to extend this to another time," the base director countered, grimacing. It would be incredibly difficult to conduct try-outs in a timely fashion, if they had to delay. It was something they really couldn't afford to have happen. About to suggest going ahead with only the five, to at least get preliminaries out of the way, Fury was stemmed by the captain's calling voice, his hand waving up one of the milling team members. Colonel Rhodes snapped his head up, dipping his chin as he agreed to meet them upstairs, and the director let the chance to speak pass by. In a few short minutes, the colonel was with them, hands in pockets and eyebrows inclining as Rogers asked him if he'd heard from Stark. Sighing audibly, Rhodey canted his head.

"They're on their way. I tried to talk them out of it, but, well..." he paused, a sardonic grin decorating his otherwise grim countenance for a moment. "Tony likes to make an entrance."

The captain brought his hand to his mouth, covering it for a few seconds as his thumb tapped along his jaw. Arriving at a conclusion, he let the palm drop and faced Fury.

"We should have faith in Stark." A skeptical glance was shot at him, and he stood his ground. "We should try, at least."

A heartbeat of quiet, then two, passed.

"Naive optimism doesn't really have a place here, Captain," Fury contradicted him lightly. "Not after all that's happened."

"I'm not going to give him a reason be unheard, certainly not due to a time delay. At least this is a controlled setting, and won't bring any real harm to anyone while it's going on," Steve murmured, the others humming in begrudging agreement. Casting a look at Maria, he continued, "Keep having the techs look into those file. It's rewriting code internally, so there has to be a way to come back at it internally. What's the potential recruit's codename?"

Rhodey cleared his throat, meeting the captain's gaze squarely and answering before Hill could.

"Spider-Man."

The blond man breathed out slowly, a decision reached. "Okay. Keep an eye out for them, Rhodes. We'll start the trials as soon as they arrive."

Nodding, Rhodey conceded to the stipulation, listening with half an ear as Rogers commanded via comms that the others suit up and get into position for the first simulation. He stayed put while they all made their way to the dressing and locker rooms, a hand scrubbing over his face as the voices of his teammates faded. He knew, he _knew_ , that bringing the kid in would be more trouble than it was worth. Initially, he had turned Stark down, even after seeing the boy's prowess in a training simulation at the Tower. However, Stark was equally determined to have him participate, and had basically proclaimed that he would find a way to bring him out, with or without his help. What's more, the boy was just as eager, was wholeheartedly willing to do whatever he could to be a part of it all. Between the two of them, Rhodey had sensed that they would certainly go ahead without his approval; asking him for endorsement was more of a courtesy to the rules set up than anything else. In the end, the colonel had granted his approval, resolving inwardly to do what he could to protect them both. The least he could do was watch out for the kid, make sure that he was safe as Tony threw him into the deep end. Once again, he was sticking his neck out for his friend, giving him the chance to prove his worth beyond the surface appearances.

"Tony, you owe me hugely for this..." he grumbled to himself, exiting the room to put on his armor, his gut sinking in dread and anticipation.

 **xXxXxXx**

The outdoor simulation space was nearly set up by the time Tony managed to make his way onto the base's property lines. The night before, he had secured Peter and driven them both up to Albany, the boy's aunt having been told they would be attending a tech conference. It had taken some doing, a bit of schmoozing on the billionaire's part, to obtain permission for the kid to come with him, but when both the school principal and May Parker looked into the falsified credentials of the conference (Peter had shown his genius, constructing the website and creating the contact information for it; everything rerouted to the Tower, wherein several of the AI's Tony had constructed were able to field questions, if they had to), they had granted the boy leave. Unfortunately, they had not gotten on the road until late, as some last-minute modifications were made to Parker's uniform.

The new suit was a work of art, Tony mused to himself as he drove. Glimpsing the decked-out teenager fidgeting in the passenger seat, he nodded in agreement with himself. Maintaining the red and blue theme that Peter favored, he was able to manipulate titanium into the weave for better protection and durability, disguised as a webbing design across the chest and limbs. The spider at the center of the chest provided additional protection, as well as driving the point of his adopted persona home. The webbing extended up into the face mask, threaded as well with fibers that would distort any x-ray technologies and keep the young man's identity a secret (just in case the Vision would look deeper and find out the truth that way). The bulky canisters from before were reformed, smaller versions that blended seamlessly into the join between glove and arm plating, secured tightly and maintaining a higher level of webbing accuracy. Inwardly, Tony reasserted that Peter was going to knock 'em dead. Provided that they didn't give the game away first.

Barreling up the frontage road, Stark detoured when he spotted the landed quinjet and other assorted vehicles spread across the wide, open field. The reawakening grass churned and spun out under the wheels as he directed the car in that direction, knowing that the other recruits would no doubt be gathered there already. As one, they ringed together as the sports car approached, ducking and dodging as it swept and twisted between obstacles. Peter was hanging on for dear life as Tony followed through with several spin-out turns, and he gratefully bailed when the tech genius sprang the locks on the door and told him to go for it. He trusted the teenager to keep his head down, his mouth shut, and to stay right on Rhodey's heels for the first simulation. He also trusted the kid to catch himself and get himself to safety after leaping from a car, and so he sped off to the base's garage, leaving the recruits behind in a cloud of dust.

Parking, Tony was somewhat surprised to find the garage virtually empty. He figured that most of the agent on-site would be angling to find the best seating available for the upcoming trials, and so he made his way indoors without an escort. The lobby, the stairwells, even a good portion of the long halls were deserted, and when a set of operatives rushed by him, muttering about how they could only find a couple of good spots to watch on the roof, he was proven right. As per the directions he was given the night before, he made his way towards the upper offices, his clearance reinstated as he went through the security points.

And, as he turned a corner, he was met by the one person he truly wished he did not have to interact with in any capacity that day.

"Stark, you're here," Rogers stated, his baritone voice grinding on the billionaire's nerves already. Gritting his teeth, he pivoted on his heel, the grin he managed contorting into a twisted grimace.

"Well, better late than never. That's your motto, right, Cap?" he retorted, the dig earning him a personal point when Steve blinked and pink burned the tips of his ears. Canting his head back towards the field, he went on, "My guy's ready and primed. I sent him out to get his assignment."

Steve nodded at that, though his expression remained impassive. Tipping his palm forward, he allowed Stark to precede him on the journey to the observation room.

"Care to explain why his files are corrupted, while we have the time?" the captain asked, his tone barely polite as they walked. Stark continued to face forward, the corner of his mouth quirking. It was good to know another part of his plan was working.

"Dunno. Glitch in the system?" he guessed aloud, the insincere lilt to his voice highly suspicious. As the captain narrowed his gaze at the billionaire, Stark merely shrugged. "I'll look into it after the first trials are done."

"When it's too late to pull him out?" the blond man surmised sarcastically, the brightness in his gaze dulling further. Eyeing him carefully, he mumbled, "Tony..."

The sentence went unfinished, mainly because Stark shrugged him off and kept moving towards the designated meeting area. Entering the observation room, Stark took stock of his surroundings. Fury and Hawley were already seated, awaiting the countdown on the clock to run out and for the simulation to start. Two other team members were there as well, excused from acting as leaders in the simulation. Wanda Maximoff flashed a glance over him, her green eyes wide as she met the simmering wall of frustration he was secreting inside, and she leaned against the Vision's shoulder. The android looked between the pair of them, remaining silent. Several screens had been mounted on the walls one dedicated to each individual recruit and operated by some micro-drones of his creation. They would tape and observe each applicant in the preliminary fighting, to be examined later on at the examination board's leisure. The one on the bottom row, to the right, caught his attention, and he froze in his steps. He clenched his jaw for a few seconds, before turning a dark, brittle look onto Rogers.

"Ah, so I guessed right: the assassin is up for consideration as well," he said, all but spitting out the title he applied to Barnes. Speculation about the applicants was one thing, but to see the proof before his eyes was another altogether, and it turned his stomach. The grin he turned onto his would-be friend was more of a snarl. "Thought you were forbidden on grounds of favoritism to put in a bid."

More pink tinged the captain's face, but he did not cower before the billionaire. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and maintained his usual stiff posture.

"I was. He was nominated by the Maximoffs," he replied, nodding as Tony scoffed audibly. Raising a shoulder, he explained, "He and Pietro have formed a rapport over the last couple of months. Wanda, too."

Stark snorted at that. "Figures. They all have a lot in common, after all."

Across the room, Wanda flinched visibly, and her eyes flickered scarlet for a second.

"Enough," came a low voice, and he looked up into the Vision's steady gaze. The electric blue irises of the android had constricted, and his mouth was set grimly. Though he did sympathize with Stark in regards to the situation surrounding his parents' deaths, the Vision had since been exposed to other viewpoints, having seen for himself the effort the ex-assassin had put into changing his life and repenting his deeds. As well as that, he felt an unusual stirring inside, one that told him that he would not stand for Wanda to be insulted in such a way, no matter how truthful the words were. Combined with the stern looks being directed at him by Fury and Hawley, Stark clicked his tongue, sensing himself to be outnumbered for the moment and not wishing to push it.

"Fine, fine. Just...start the show whenever you're all ready," he said, striding away from the confrontation. His attention turned to the camera flickering to life in the left corner, the one assigned to Peter. He wasn't about to jeopardized the whole operation just because of the unpleasant developments. There was too much at stake. "I'll be over here, minding my own business."

Blue eyes focused on him for another long moment, before Steve shook his head ruefully and turned his attention back onto the screens. The timer was ticking down, the recruits divvied up into teams, and the future just about ready to be determined.

 **xXxXxXx**

Two teams, two sides, neither right nor wrong. They simply were.

Bucky drew in a deep breath, the Kevlar and armor strapped to him tightening slightly. It was here, another moment, another time to prove his worth. To prove he was more than he was made to be. His mind was clear, his purpose before him. He had promised Natasha he would not hold back, and he would hold true to that promise, even with her being on the opposing side.

The goal of the first exercise was to measure each recruit's battle prowess, with them working together to bring the opposing team into submission. It was to go until every single member of the other side surrendered, or until the timer ran out. An hour was allotted for the fight at max, so it was speculated that surrender would happen first. Well, it wouldn't come from him. Not that time. He glanced over at his compatriots, sizing them up. Wilson and the one called Hawkeye were to act as co-leaders, steering the remaining members in the right direction as the simulation commenced. Ant-Man, or Scott as he was called, was bouncing on the balls of his feet, barely containing himself as the counter kept ticking down. One of the two girls, Emily (codenamed as Synapse), shot him a curious look, a smile curving her mouth as she flicked her gaze towards the other team. Directly across the field from him was Natasha, co-leader of the other side. Dropping his gaze to his boots for a second, he managed to keep his placid facade, his breathing controlled as the last few seconds flashed on the board positioned on the base's roof.

The counter ran down, and as the large zero spread across the digital board, the recruits sprang into action. Loud cries and whoops broke out, echoing around them (they'd all been ignoring the audience of agents that had cropped up to watch the display, but it was hard to do so now). Breaking into a full run, the two sides met in the middle. The Black Widow jumped, planting her foot on his knee for leverage before crooking an elbow around his throat. Not having it, Bucky moved with her, driving his other elbow backwards into her side to slacken her hold. Legs and hips twisted, curling around him in a way that he did not find pleasant. In a trice, though, she was off him, Synapse slipping in beneath the radar and catching her with a right hook. Though he wanted to make sure Natasha was alright, he knew better than risk the exposure. Later, when they retreated to her quarters, he would check her over for any wounds or ailments. Thoroughly. Just like last night.

His moment of freedom was short-lived, as scratching claws came at him mere seconds after the Black Widow was driven away. It did not seem human at first, and he was hard-pressed to fend off the lithe, darting creature. In the back of his mind, he knew that it was merely the uniformed Prince of Wakanda, but he was locked into his fight-or-flight mode, unable to reason with it. The pair wrestled with one another, his punches rebounding almost harmlessly off the fellow's armor. Still, he did manage to dislodge him, pushing him sharply into a broken luggage cart and escaping.

Barely shaking off the panther-like man, he rolled underneath one of the wrecked cars, taking refuge there for a moment. It did not last long, as shots of white film attached themselves to his ankles, hauling him backwards and back into the fray. Face to face with the late arrival, the guy in blue and red—Spider-Man, as he had been introduced by the colonel—he rolled his eyes. Cocking his fist, he fired out from the shoulder, intent on at least knocking the guy back long enough to get away to steadier ground. His metal fist was caught, and moreover, held easily, the grip around his appendage making the sensors snap loudly in his brain.

"Oh, wow! This is your actual arm?" the voice within the mask crooned, taking him aback. It wasn't so much the question that pulled Bucky up short, nor was it the solid grip bending his arm out at the wrist for examination. It was the tone, the incredibly _youthful_ tone coming from the guy before him. Barnes felt his eyes widened as he was jerked forward, two gloved hands turning his palm up and the white eye coverings descending closer. The excitement tripled as the guy continued to stare (or so he supposed he was doing behind the mask). "What are the composite materials?"

"I..." the ex-assassin stammered, unable to formulate a response. Curiosity, he could understand, but at this level, and in a battle simulation? Something was off by a few degrees, and he stared right back at him. Jerking his head up, the red-and-blue suited peer looked around them, as though he suddenly remembered where he was.

"Right, right, we're supposed to be fighting," the guy responded anxiously. Hooking a thumb back towards the combatants around them, he lifted a shoulder. "Um, still kinda new to the whole thing. But maybe afterward we can talk? Because that is seriously cool."

Nonplussed, and incredibly off-kilter, Bucky gaped at him. "What?"

"Sorry, gotta swing," the guy said, the strange film pouring out from his wrist and attaching to the overhead wing of a nearby quinjet. "Talk later though, 'kay?"

The red-and-blue menace was off, far away by the time Barnes had collected his faculties. Nothing like that had ever occurred to him before, as far as he could remember. That guy, that really young-sounding guy was just so...he shook his head. What had just happened?

A low growl tore through the air, ending his contemplation as the Black Panther returned for another round.

 **xXxXxXx**

Across the field, behind one of the dismembered Jeeps, Clint Barton was crouched and steadying his breathing. After so long a time spent away from his element, it was a somewhat heady experience to be thrown back into the fray. In a way, it felt like coming home, slinging on the quiver of his high-tech arrows, his collapsible bow springing wide as he opened it. Though it was hard to be away from Laura and the kids, much harder than it had been in the past, a part of him was glad to be plying his true trade, even if it was just a simulation and he was a little rusty.

It would explain why his protege was laying into him hard, coming at him with every move possible. Kate was a tough cookie, and she was determined to prove her worth. She wanted his mantle, wanted to be Hawkeye in his place, and had been at his mercy for months to do so. While the board had provided him the opportunity to let her try, he wasn't about to hand it over all that easily. Consequently, she was pulling no punches with him. And she punched hard, he mused, rubbing lightly at the sore spot along his jaw.

Risking a peek over the edge of the Jeep, he spotted the rest of his team engaged with combatants of the opposing side, holding their own. However, he'd lost his target, and was harrumphing silently when three rapid thumps rattled off the frame beside him. Detonator arrows, calibrated to only pop and disorient, were about to go off, and he scrambled away with barely a second to spare. Suddenly, a body slammed atop his, dragging him into a full roll. Bows clashed and jabbed at one another, Kate's hazel eyes shining with triumph at catching him off-guard. She stayed close, doing her best to make sure he could not get a single shot off. Forced to reach for his boot extensions, he shoved her off long enough to string one up. Firing, the arrow breezed by her ear harmlessly. Not even flinching, she pressed her advantage again, knocking him back down to the ground and kicking his bow away.

"Gotta be aware of your surroundings, Barton," the young woman rumbled proudly, standing tall and flicking her braid over her shoulder. Harsh breaths poured out of them, and her smile turned feral. Surrender was imminent; all she had to do was wait.

The older archer snickered at that, ignoring her frown and glancing down at her booted feet pointedly. Following his gaze, her eyes widened as she realized that a retractable wire had been attached to the arrow he'd fired into the outcropping of crates thirty feet away, the end of it looped around her ankle when she accidentally stepped into it. As he thumbed the sensor on his boot, he smirked as the younger woman was jerked backward, dragging along in the dirt as the wire hauled her back towards the trap he'd set up.

"Be aware of yours, Katie," he called after her, grinning and getting off of the ground. As he brushed himself off, he sensed another presence behind him. However, he did not turn to face her. Instead, he let her come to him.

"Could've gone a little easier on her," Natasha told him as she came up on his left, not entirely sincere about it. That earned her a look, a brief flash of incredulity decorating his features. The redhead shrugged at her friend, and he chuckled.

"Like you could've with Barnes?" he retorted, watching as her muted delight drained away. He may have been out of the game for nearly a year, but he wasn't blind. Not about her, not about the woman who had been his partner for so many endeavors and missions. He'd witnessed her brutal attack upon the guy, and the force he'd put into meeting her head-on. Privately, he wondered if it was possibly a form of foreplay for her to do so, but he knew better than to ask that question. Rather, he just reasserted the speakable truth. "C'mon, I know you. You kick people's asses twice as hard if you like them."

Having seemingly scored a point, Hawkeye was prepared to launch into another attack. However, the Black Widow had beaten him to it, her leg pivoting and sweeping out, catching him in the side and knocking him to the ground. Before he had a chance to get up, she'd fallen on him.

"Which explains why you're eating dirt now, right?" she whispered in his ear, smirking as she pressed his face harder into the ground. He may have scored a point, but he was not going to win the battle.

"Mmph!" was the grunted response, before the fellow twisted and turned to push her off of him. When she sprang away, her grin grew wider as she caught him spitting grass and gravel out of his mouth. Well, at least before he glared at her, his feet pounding into the ground as he started to chase her across the field. If he could catch her, he would pay her back in full for her actions.

 **xXxXxXx**

Meanwhile, Scott Lang was dodging and diving away from the continual thorn in his side. For all the good it had done him earlier, his shrinking and fighting with the War Machine had borne no fruit. Well, besides the fruit of frustration. He could not catch a break with the guy, the mechanized armor seemingly too solid for him to work his way into. Even summoning the ants did him no favors; after all, the colonel hardly ever touched the ground, so it would be impossible to recruit his friends into helping him sever internal wires. Tapping at the pad on his wrist, he contemplated an idea. If he did some reverse calculations, redid the calibrations, he could, theoretically, enhance himself to a larger size. However, it had the potential to kill him if he happened to get it even slightly off. When he felt the burning breeze of boosters brush his neck, though, he figured it was worth a shot. It worked in the lab once, could work again. YOLO, and all that. People still said YOLO, right? He didn't have the time to ask.

Tapping along the pad, he began to run towards the War Machine as he made another pass. Inhaling deeply, he took up the suit trigger, pushing himself harder.

"Please don't rip me to shreds, please don't rip me into shreds...if I die, tell my daughter I'm sorry I didn't get her that pony she wanted!" he yelled out over the comms, begging the powers that were to spare his life and for his temporary teammates to follow his last wishes. Pressing the trigger, he felt his body expand, careen out until he towered over the base. Reaching out, he managed to catch the colonel around the ankle. Finally, finally, he got him.

"What the—" the colonel's tinny voice rattled out, but he had little time to say anything else. His body was jerked up and down, and all around as Scott celebrated his victory.

"Hot damn, it worked!" his deep voice rumbled out, the minor tremors of his shuffling feet making the ground shake. With one toss, he rocketed the colonel downward forcing him to land in an embankment of crates and carts, and he pumped a massive fist in the air.

The victory was short-lived, however. A mass of webbing, a false step, and the rock of the ground as he fell had bumped his ego back down a few notches. It was made worse by the guy in red and blue gloating about the superiority of spiders to ants over the comms, and Scott groaned as he reverted to his normal size.

Well, at least it worked for a few minutes, right?

 **xXxXxXx**

The pleased expression on Tony's face after Spider-Man's deft handling of the Ant-Man was almost unbearable in its smugness, but on the whole, it was preferable to the moroseness he'd sported upon arrival. To himself, Steve had supposed he'd rather the billionaire be happy; his choice, it seemed, was a good one, lacking in credentials as he was. Still, the simulation was not finished, and so he kept an eye on the cameras, watching as Wilson turned next upon the smaller guy. Though his reflexes were beyond those of a typical human being, he still managed to be caught by the Falcon's boot as he swooped down from the sky. Shoved into some shipping containers, the other fellow seemed to have cracked his head pretty hard on the fall, disorienting him for a few seconds.

"C'mon, Underoos, get up," Stark crowed under his breath, watching avidly as the monitor panned to where the young man was cornered. Backed up between two blocks of shipping crates, the Spider-Man was being assaulted by the Falcon, web-shots flinging out as he slid down to the ground. Grinding his teeth, Tony tapped his fingers impatiently along the side of his leg. The boy had to get off the ground, get himself out of there, but the Falcon was unwilling to allow him by. "Get up."

A string of webbing smeared over the flying Avenger's goggles, causing him to drop down blindly. The younger fellow, though, was directly below him, and stood to be crushed under the other's weight (along with some collapsing crates) as he fell. There had been too many close calls for the boy that day, and this last one had pushed him to the breaking point. At once, the tech genius cried out again, his voice gaining volume as he growled at the screen.

"Get out of there, Peter!"

A deathly silence fell in the room after his final pronouncement, and Tony felt the blood drain from his face. It was entirely unintentional, a slip of the tongue brought on by concern and pride. However, those two things were out of his mind when he chanced a glance to the left, when he caught the drop of Rogers' jaw.

"Peter? As in Peter Parker?" the captain gasped, eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline. Behind him, Hawley shot a confused look to Fury, who merely grimaced in response. The marked lack of denial from the billionaire made the blond man's face blanch. The young kid, who had done the photography for his wedding, was the Spider-Man? He was the one who had been rumored to be swinging around Queens, performing random acts of heroism? (The reports in the city had been forwarded, but were to be addressed at a later date.) It boggled the mind, and deeply upset him. " _He's_ your bid?! He's a kid!"

"A kid? How old is that young man?" Hawley interjected, her face creasing in concern. Alarms were sounding in her head at the implications being made. From their spot at the back of the room, Wanda shared a worried glance with the Vision, silent questions passing with no answers. No answers, save for the one the captain spat out.

"He's fifteen."

"Sixteen in June," Stark riposted, not giving an inch despite being caught out. The representative shot a look of horror at him, turning to glance at Fury. The team could suffer great damage for endangering a minor, no matter how advanced he was with his abilities, and they could not afford that. The field director of SHIELD tipped his chin, and immediately gestured the two Avengers at the back of the room forward.

"Shut down the demonstration, now," he told them, hooking his thumb out in the direction of the field. Tony barked out a noise of denial, his face screwing up in indignation.

"What? No! He's fine, look," he said, pointing at the camera monitors to show how Parker had regained his footing, his hand-to-hand bout with Sam resuming as he flipped over the Falcon. However, the others in the room glowered at him, not willing to let the new development slide.

" _No_. Stop the fight, and bring everyone inside," Steve commanded, his voice barely restraining the rise of shocked anger inside him. At once, Wanda and the Vision nodded, the pair of them clambering out of the chamber and onto the field. Peering at the screens, they could see the activity of the trials had stopped, the combatants gathered as the Scarlet Witch and the android beckoned them to meet in the center of the impromptu arena. The comms were turned off for a moment, but it was clear to the cameras that the others were told why they had stopped. Heads turned to stare at the young man in blue and red, the slump of his shoulders visible as the stunned expressions of the others were directed at him. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached up and removed his mask, his hair spiking as he revealed himself. Stark's gaze fell to his feet, and Steve huffed. It was true; the teenager was there, was the billionaire's bid for team membership.

But why? Why Peter?

As those assembled made their way off the field, the thunder in his blue eyes pinned Stark to his spot, though he met the storm fully. He would not back down, raising his chin defiantly and keeping his face a stoic mask. Clenching fists at his sides for a moment, Steve drew himself up to his full height, veritably towering over the other man as he tapped into the comm link in his ear, using JJ to override and connect with the channels again.

"Team meeting in the training room, five minutes." A chorus of agreement hit his ears, and the camera feed cut off in time to show the participants edging their way back towards the facility. Gritting his teeth, the captain jabbed a finger in the billionaire's direction. "And you better not be late, Stark. So help me God."

The cloud of fury and disappointment remained even as he strode away, leaving the billionaire behind to wallow in it. For a moment, the older man merely stared at his retreating back, his defiance and stiff spine keeping him from giving way even that much. When the room had emptied, and all that was left were the chairs and the dark screens of the monitors, he exhaled. His shoulders drooped minutely, and he let out a low groan. It was an honest mistake, and now it was going to cost Peter a great chance for the future.

"Damn it," he breathed, hands tucking into pockets as he started to plod down to the training room, ready to meet his fate once more.

* * *

 **A/N:**...To be continued next week. If the actions sequences sucked, I'm sorry. I'm just doing my best here. A lot going on in the chapter, and I hope it wasn't terribly confusing.

First prelims, and it comes out that Peter Parker is Spider-Man. Oh boy, they are in trouble...

Not much to say about this chapter, other than that it kicked my butt and I hope you all like it.

I mentally adjusted the ages of Synapse and Kate Bishop to be around their early twenties to make them viable candidates.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Sriracha sauce, Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	22. Chapter 22

The arguing that had followed the recruits' return to the base had lasted a solid fifteen minutes so far, and Peter was unsure of how much more he could personally take. His mask slipped from his fingers, landing on the open spot next to him as he sat on one of the boxed platforms of the training room (he had worn it in, a requirement made to protect his identity from the milling agents, who had no access to the video feeds and did not understand why the simulation had been stopped, but no longer). To his right, he could see the two female recruits, older women who flashed concerned expressions at him every now and again. The one called the Black Panther had maintained his mask of stoicism, listening even as the others were shouting at each other about his presence. After some time had passed, he'd sunk to the floor, adopting a meditative pose and seemingly letting them deal with the problem—since they did not fall under the realm of his jurisdiction, he saw no need to interfere, for the time being. Ant-Man had removed his helmet, all previous good humor wiped away from his face as he spoke to the Falcon in a rushed, hushed tone, and he caught "kick...how could you...'s a kid." Equally as disturbed, the other man snapped up his goggles, his shoulders tense and barking back that he hadn't a clue beforehand. Just behind him was the guy with the metal arm, silent and still, his gaze taking in all and yet saying nothing. That, he was grateful for, he mused sullenly, his gloved fingers raking and skewing his hair further.

Peter had predicted that it wouldn't work, that it would be a bad idea. He hated that he was proven right, that time.

Tony, and to a lesser degree Colonel Rhodes, were being taken to task by the captain, the remaining Avengers ringing them all. The fellow with the black coat and eye-patch, he identified as Director Fury ("Dude's a BAMF, but confusing as all hell. And downright scary on some levels. Keep an eye on him, Pete. Really," the tech genius had warned him prior to the event, when he had asked about the committee that would be reviewing the applicants), and the older woman was a representative of some kind. Either way, the most important people on the base were engaging in a heated discussion with the billionaire, and Peter could do nothing but listen and watch.

"There was no age requirement," Stark was countering firmly, arms crossed and refusing to back down from his position. Before him, the captain had his hands on his hips, blue eyes icy and jaw tightening.

"Maybe not, but one would think you would've exercised a little common sense," Rogers retorted, tipping his head at the kid perched nearby in question. "Peter is a _minor,_ Tony."

"So what?!" the older man shot back, and a little flush flowed through the boy, glad that his mentor was sticking up for him, even after all that had happened. "Just because he's fifteen doesn't mean—"

"Pretty damn sure it does, Stark! You were watching the monitors; you knew exactly how close the fighting was. What if it had gone sideways? What would have happened then?" the captain demanded, something akin to worry breaking underneath the frustration. It made Peter flinch upon hearing it; he knew that Captain Rogers would not be happy if he found out, but fearing for his well-being, even in a simulation? He hadn't thought that would be the case. It twisted his stomach and made him feel even worse about it all, for some reason.

"But it didn't. He would've been fine if I hadn't..." the billionaire trailed off, guilt washing over his face. According to what the auburn-haired woman had told the group, he had been the one to let slip about the boy's identity. It was an honest mistake, and Peter was not upset about it. Not too much, anyway; he was upset that the once the deception was discovered, it brought everything to a grinding halt, but it couldn't be helped. Dark eyes flicked over his shoulder, catching Parker's wince, and he sighed. "Look, you don't get it. Not surprising, but let me make it clear to you. Yeah, he's young, but guess what? He's got powers. Powers that didn't wait for the magical midnight hour that declared him legal. He's been utilizing them on his own for months, just winging it." He paused, letting that sink in. A fast look of concern was lobbed from Hawley to Fury so swiftly it nearly made his head spin, but there was no time to consider it. He had a case to make, the case he'd intended to make the entire time. It just so happened that his planned speech had to be moved up and...improvised, slightly. Jerking his thumb towards Peter, he continued, "He needs help; he needs the team's help to figure it out. Get him in for some proper training, so he can adequately face what's out there."

A few seconds of silence followed. And then a blond eyebrow spiked.

"And you thought the best way to do that was to bring him in to _this_?" the captain inquired facetiously, the tenor of the question making Parker cringe again. The fight wasn't over, not by a long shot. Sadly, Tony wasn't giving it up, either.

"Hey, go big or go home, right?" he riposted, spreading his arms wide. A chorus of groans echoed around him.

"Wow...so not appropriate, Stark," breathed the fellow called Hawkeye, little humor in his tone. He had come in with a face like thunder as well. All of them had looked that way, to some degree, when he'd been revealed. Tony crowed back at him, telling him he had no room to speak on propriety, to which the Black Widow grumbled that they were all acting more like children than the teenager was at that moment. The cacophony of voices grew exponentially, and it was downright maddening. Hunching his shoulders, Parker scrubbed his hands over his face, unwilling to be talked over and discussed (shouted about) when he had just as much to say. Standing up, he cleared his throat, balling his fists at his sides.

"Guys," he started, trying to get everybody's attention. When that failed, he raised his voice a few notches. "Guys, hey."

Still, he went unheard, save for the fellow recruits and their winces in sympathy. A hand on his shoulder halted his speech. Glancing up, he saw that the guy with the metal arm had stepped up beside him, his stony facade broken.

"Hold on," he said in an undertone. Tucking back a lip, he raised his head, a shrill whistle piercing the air and breaking through the wall of anger. Peter felt as though his ear was ringing slightly after the fact, but he was glad that he'd managed to pull the others up short. Swiftly, he barked, "Hey!"

All at once, the arguing stopped, many eyes turning in their direction now. Tony's heated glare intensified when it focused on the guy beside the kid, and he took a half-step in their direction. It took Director Fury catching his elbow to make him stop, but by then, the fellow had removed his hand from him, stepping back once more.

"The kid wants to speak," he told them all, arms crossing and his chin raised. "Let him speak."

Swallowing hard, Peter took another step forward, meeting the gazes of the Avengers squarely and his courage rising.

"Captain Rogers, everyone," he started, faltering a little as his voice creaked a bit. Annoyed with it, he quickly cleared his throat and pulled himself to his full height. He went on, "It wasn't just Mr. Stark. I wanted to come. I mean, I did try to talk him out of the sponsorship, but...I still wanted to be here."

The hard lines in the captain's forehead softened, but only slightly. "Peter."

"I know lying about it was wrong, and I'm sorry for that," the boy apologized, genuine to the last. Still, he inhaled deeply and forged ahead with what he wanted to say. "But, well, you wouldn't have given me a chance, otherwise, right?" His eyes darted between the team members, and while some were unreadable, he could see the slight chagrin in a few, the faces they pulled confirming his suspicions. Cupping a palm in the air, he murmured, "Tony's right. I've been managing so far, but honestly, I don't know what I'm doing, apart from helping in whatever way I can. This is all still really new to me; I've only had a couple of months to start figuring it out. I...I need your help. I want to do more, and I know I could do that with you guys. I need to do more."

The appeal was made, and all he could hope was that he would be heard. Truly heard. And judging by the contemplative look overtaking Captain Rogers' face, he knew that he was. However, it was the older woman with silvered blond hair who spoke up.

"Young man, it is admirable that you wish to take responsibility for what has happened to you and put it to good use. However, the fact remains that you are still a minor," she told him, not unkindly. From her perspective, it had to be done, no matter how little she liked seeing the disappointment in the lad. "Perhaps in two years, you can be considered for a position amongst the Avengers."

Parker's shoulders deflated, the dismissal ringing clear in the representative's voice. Stark's head snapped around, and his mouth opened to launch a stinging retort. However, before the boy could succumb to defeat or his mentor to rage, the presence of the metal-armed guy was renewed, standing beside him in a show of solidarity.

"He isn't asking for membership. He's asking for the training. I think that's point he's trying to make," he reiterated, his thoughtful expression framed by the sardonic cast of his eyes. Shrugging, he hooked his fingers into his belt and remained rooted beside Peter. "Better that he gets it from you guys than half-assing it."

Behind the captain, the Black Widow's bright eyes gleamed, but her expression remained even.

"His case is a little weird, but what happens when it's a kid affected by, say, the Inhuman phenomenon?" she posited, a wave of discomfort passing through them all at the prospect. Taking that into account, she hammered the point home. "SHIELD is watching out for the adults; what about children? What should be done for them?"

"I barely made it through, and I'm twenty-four," a whisper-soft voice cut in then, and everyone looked to the girl with black hair, one of the other applicants. A finger rubbed at Synapse's temple as her eyes grew distant, despondent. "A kid would be terrified."

More unreadable, unsettling looks were passed around, and then Director Fury exhaled sharply.

"We need to discuss this," he remarked, gaze shooting to Hawley and Rogers quickly. Off the captain's concurrent nod, he cleared his throat and raised his voice. "Trial activities are suspended for the next few hours."

With a final command for the applicants to remain in the Avengers' wing of the base, and not to wander into the public areas, the review committee left to do just that. At the captain's behest, Mr. Stark went with them, the Avengers dispersing shortly after that. Peter took in deep, careful breaths, overwhelmed suddenly by the rapid turn of events. While he did not understand the full ramifications of his stance that afternoon, he did know that he was not going to be cast out, that his voice had been heard and that maybe, just maybe something in his new and crazy life would start to make sense. Scratching at the curve of his jaw, he half-turned, lifting a shoulder at the metal-armed guy and attempting a smile.

"Thank you, Mister...?" he hesitated, wishing he had caught his second advocate's name on the first go around. The taller man just shook his head, dark hair swinging and brushing over his forehead.

"Just call me Bucky. And don't worry about it."

Nodding, Peter took a few more calming breaths, his fingers occupying themselves with smoothing down his spiked hair and keeping his mind focused on the present. Returning to an earlier inquiry, he sheepishly wondered if it was a good time to check out the older man's arm. Snorting, Bucky had grumbled under his breath before seating himself on the nearby box, holding the appendage out with an exasperated sigh. Silent permission granted, the teen removed his gloves, palms cradling the metal plates as he nudged it one way or another. It was fascinating, and he could help the stream of questions that had burst forth, his mind thoroughly occupied. Funnily enough, the Black Panther (the prince, he chided himself inwardly, the dude was a _prince_ ) had come out of his meditations, his focus on the arm as well. Whereas Peter's questions about materials and sensors were academic, he got the distinct sense the prince's were not, something that Bucky seemed to cotton onto as well. Brown and blue irises met, an unspoken conversation below the surface that Parker could not follow.

It was well over an hour by the time the training room had opened again, Tony waving his hand to the boy and beckoning him over. The unbridled hatred that had flooded his face when he chanced a look at Bucky made even Peter flinch, but there was no time to ask about it.

"C'mere, Parker," he called out, gesturing for him to follow swiftly. Snatching up his mask, the teen dipped his chin in farewell to the two older men he was leaving behind, both of them watching as he slipped out of the facility. The late afternoon sun shone through the window walls as they walked, taking a private path up to one of the conference rooms in the Avengers' wing of the base. They came upon one without any glass walls, and Tony ushered him in, closing the door behind them both with a sharp click. Director Fury was there, standing tall with his arms folded behind his back, while Representative Hawley was seated, another woman with brown hair and blue eyes to her left. The captain was standing as well, hands resting on his belt and a silent nod his greeting. Tipping a palm out, the brunette woman invited him to step closer.

A decision had been reached, and it was time for judgment to be passed.

"For the remainder of the weekend, you're forbidden from participating in the placement trials," Captain Rogers began, electing to be the first to address him. Seeing his shoulders slump, the older man shook his head minutely, a finger tapping at his belt. "However, you will be going through a separate set of trials. We gotta figure out your real stats, your strengths and weaknesses and everything. From there, we can flesh out a training schedule for the future. I know it will be impossible to stop you from continuing to do what you're doing in the city." The captain did not seem terribly pleased as he said that, but it was the reality of the situation, and so he got through it. "The least we can do is give you the proper tools to handle it. Since Tony is the closest situated, he will be monitoring your actions and progress while there, and can provide back-up if needed."

The teenager blinked rapidly. It was far more than he had hoped for when the first layers of the deception had been laid down.

"Wow," he breathed, the blood rushing back into his face as swiftly as it had drained.

"Hold on, kid," Tony muttered, stepping forward. A palm raised to stem the verbal onslaught he was poised to give. "There is a catch."

Eyebrows shooting up, the teenager, looked back the people who were deciding his fate, not sure what kind of catch would be applied. It was then that Director Fury cut in.

"You have to report in to the team, weekly. You will meet with one of the designated active members to assess your progress monthly."

The stern look he gave told Peter he would be wise not to miss or skip out on either of those things.

"Any major emergencies—including massive attacks, invasions, and things like that—must be deferred to local law enforcement, or the team, first, no exceptions," was Representative Hawley's demand, her fingers lacing together atop the table. The uncomfortable cast to her face had not lessened by much, but she knew that it would, most likely, be the best that she could hope for in that situation. The captain's chin inclined a bit, and he shared a glance with Stark.

"And you have to tell your aunt what's going on," the blond man stated, simply yet firmly. It was another point, one that they would not yield on, and the set of his countenance told the kid that much. Peter's jaw dropped then, an accusing glare shot at Tony. The billionaire returned the hostility with a bland expression, which infuriated him further.

"You told them that?!"

"Pete, that's _my_ stipulation," he asserted, not cowed in the least by the younger man's glower. "Frankly, you should've told her months ago, when it first happened."

Huffing, Parker felt the indignity rush through him, the fury at being told he had to give himself up by people who would never do so if they were in his shoes. At least, that's what he thought.

"Oh, come on!" he groused, sounding every inch the teenager that he was. Scoffing bitterly, he spat, "Like you tell Miss Potts everything. You lied, too."

Both of the billionaire's eyebrows hit his hairline, and for the first time, Peter realized that he had pushed him a tad too hard. He wasn't going to back down, though, and he stiffened his spine. Before another altercation could take place, Captain Rogers rounded the table, hand out and his expression plaintive.

"Son, we've all kept secrets from people. From people we care about, from one another, even. In the end, doing that has caused more pain and misery than if we'd acted otherwise and been honest. I can tell you that firsthand." The minuscule glance he shot to Stark went unnoticed by the boy as he bowed his head, but Tony merely frowned. He did not, however, disagree with him, and so the point slid by. Focusing on Peter again, he murmured, " _That's_ why we're insisting on it. You'll hurt yourself, and her, more if you keep lying to her."

The younger man's head shot up, the anger in his face laced with doubt. And not a little bit of fear.

"I can't, I can't tell—" He cut himself off, a rapid swallow bobbing the thin Adam's apple in his throat. Slowly, carefully, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, the captain's touch anchoring him to the present moment.

"I'm not saying that you have go out and declare who you are to the world. Frankly, you're not ready for that. But you can, and should, tell your aunt," he reiterated. "She's your family, Peter. And you will need your family to get through this, I promise you."

One breath, then another, and a deep sigh rolled through the kid.

"...She's gonna kill me."

Rogers gave him a crooked grin, clapping his shoulder once before dropping his hand back to his side. The outright rejection was gone, and he was thankful for that. For his part, Tony just shrugged, his earlier miffed state brushed off.

"Maybe. Or maybe she'll be more understanding than you've been giving her credit for. This is the best deal we can hope for, really." Pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek, Stark pondered that for a moment. "Unless you choose to go rogue, but you'll only go so far with that."

Another breath, and then Peter managed to nod his head.

"Okay. I...can accept those terms," he said, gliding over the hitch in his sentence as best he could. And he would accept them. He didn't want to blow his chance, now that he actually had one. So this was what Stark had meant by the great possibilities he could expect. It might not be so bad...until he spoke to Aunt May. But that could wait until after they'd returned from the weekend away.

"Alright, that's good enough for now," the captain spoke over his musings, gesturing towards the door and indicating that he was free to go. "We'll hammer out more of the details as we go."

Somewhat cheered by the prospect, Parker thanked them all before leaving the room, Tony's quiet directive to wait for him outside given before that. The door swung shut as Stark let his gaze fall over the others, riveting on Steve for a long moment as he mused inwardly.

"Look at that. A whole hour passed and we didn't kill each other," he noted. Once they'd gotten the initial argument out of their systems, the two men had been able to discuss the issue at hand. Though it did not approach the level of rapport they had once shared, it was far better than it had been in the months previous.

A grin twisted Steve's lips, though it did not reach his eyes. "Must be a new record."

Tony snorted. "Right."

"Congratulations," Fury intoned sardonically, roused from his silent contemplative state. Frankly, the entire situation revolving around Barnes, Rogers, and Stark did not crack his personal top ten of betrayals. At least the ex-assassin had owned up to his mistakes, and Rogers had as well. And while he really, truly did sympathize with Stark's stance on the matter, he had seen much worse play out in his life and career. The pain should not be forgotten, but it was time to get on to other things. Such as the conundrum posed mere hours before. "Meanwhile, there is still a lot more to go over, now that Stark has overturned another can of worms for us to clean up."

He shared a glance with Hawley, and Hill. The question of SHIELD, of the Avengers' stance on children developing powers and making their way onto the radar, had to be addressed, and it had to be done as swiftly as possible. It had been neglected for too long, and may have already caused irreparable damage elsewhere. They had to work, to try and make sure that would not happen in the future.

Stark snorted once again. He certainly did not envy them that workload. For the time being, he was content merely to bring awareness to the issue; the details could, for once, be handled by the others.

"Enjoy your homework for the night, Fury," he said, smirking at the deepening frown on the older man's face. Turning to the two ladies left in the room, he dipped his chin at both of them in farewell. "Hawley, Hill."

To Rogers, he said nothing. A final glance, a short exhalation, and he wandered out of the conference room. The gamble he had taken with Peter had paid off, to a degree. The world was shifting around him again, awareness of the next generation stepping up to the plate dawning on him fully in that instant. And even previous generations getting into the swing of it, he noted sourly, his mind considering Barnes once more. However, the bitterness from before had been tempered as he recalled the way he'd stood by the kid, stood up for him in a small way. It was strange, reconciling that to his own perceptions. It also left a weird taste in his mouth, one that he did not care to analyze at that moment.

"Let's go check out the guest quarters, kid," he instead offered aloud, hooking his thumb to the elevator and motioning for Parker to come along. He had no desire to return to Albany for the night, and he was not about to suffer through the efforts of a student driver. "See what's left for us to claim."

"Sure," the kid said, following close on his heels. After a minute or two of quiet walking, his face brightened considerably, and he opened his mouth again. "Hey, so I got a close look at Bucky's arm. Did you know—"

The bad taste returned, and Stark shook his head.

"Peter. Not now," he reprimanded him gently, waiting until the younger man had conceded to his request. Confusion streaked across the boy's irises, but he was in no mood to consider it. There was enough to think about already. Barnes could wait for a little while.

 **xXxXxXx**

With the situation regarding the kid having been squared away, the trials resumed with only a few hours lost. Even though they were short an applicant, the others managed to come through the simulations relatively well. The hand-to-hand combat exercises were interchanged with psychiatric evaluations (for those without permanent therapists, of course; the ones who were already in treatment just had their doctors forward reports of their findings for consideration to the on-site doctors). Some of the fights were interesting, purely for the spectator aspect—the sparring between Synapse and Wanda was almost purely mental, and it was entertaining to see as one or the other would occasionally freeze in place before bending in pain due to the assault happening within. Clint and Lang provided a running commentary for it as they went, and even Bucky couldn't hold back a grin when they did so ("Uh-oh, execute system restart, Scarlet Witch needs a reboot," the one called Ant-Man snickered, narrowly avoiding the blasting mist of a red aura as Barton smothered his laugh in the sleeve of his jacket).

For his part, Bucky had determined he was truly doing his best, his sparring opponent being Barton. The archer was just as ruthless and relentless as he could be, but he suspected a lot of his punches and jabs had a different intent behind them as he swung. Privately, Natasha had confirmed that was very likely the case, but the other man had confessed that he was glad that Barnes gave as much as he got without fear of reprisal. Whether or not he achieved placement, he was proving his progress, his worth, and he was doing decently. That was enough for him, particularly when he was going to bed with sore muscles and a blooming shiner the second night.

The third day rolled around, the summons for the applicants distributed. One by one, they filed into the designated office, seating themselves at the table. Bucky sat on the edge of his seat, hands folding into his lap as the assembled Avengers stared them down (avidly he directed his gaze away from both the woman he cared for—she would not appreciate leering, though it wouldn't be anything of the sort—and from the man he'd greatly, unknowingly wronged in the past), all of them positioned behind the committee of four. Steve and Fury took up the center posts before the table, Hawley and Hill flanking them. Once the gathered recruits had been seated and conversation had still, they spoke.

It had been decided, the captain had proclaimed, looking at each one of them in turn. Prince T'Challa, due to his influence and the need to be close at hand, would be assigned to the secondary team. Emily would be as well, seeing as how there was already one mentally-inclined Avenger in New York and they needed the balance (she shot a look to the other woman in question, the pair of them sharing a secret smile to the bafflement of the others gathered). As for the primary team membership, the first slot was to be awarded to Scott Lang, Fury stepping in to intimate that he had demonstrated his worth. Despite the quirks, was the dry addendum, but the guy looked far too pleased to be truly offended by the field director's observation. Upon the seconds of silence that followed, Barnes shot a hasty glance at Bishop, her returning it with a raised eyebrow. The intentional drawing out of the tension was ridiculous, in their eyes, but they could do no more than wait. Finally, Fury spoke again, the corner of his mouth twitching. After heavy deliberation, it had been decided that Bucky Barnes would be afforded the final slot.

A pin could have dropped in that moment, and it would not have been any louder than the quiet that followed. Barnes merely stared at the assessment committee as they spoke directly to Kate. Part of him was backlogging the information, that she would be on a rotating roster between the two teams, three-month intervals spent between the bases so that she could continue her training and gain more experience. Hawkeye would still hold onto his title, but after six months, she could choose whether to take up the mantle in New York, or forge a new one in London. The buzz in the room grew and opposed the one in his mind when the meeting concluded several minutes later, instructions for each new member given. At some point, he recalled meeting Steve's eyes, quiet pride in his irises as he nodded to his friend. The others began to filter out (the captain was drawn into a closed-headed conference with Fury, the one called Hill hot on their heels, and the rest of the Avengers trailed after them), meeting up in the hall, but he stayed put. Well, him and another person.

"Primary team placement. Awesome!" Lang crooned, smiling wide and raising his hand in the air. The expectant look he gave Bucky was met by a bland one, and he slowly lowered his hand again. Clearing his throat, he scratched at his ear, a little at a loss and slightly miffed at being rejected for the high-five. Working with someone that humorless was going to be interest. "Well, I'm gonna go...make some calls."

He hooked his thumb over his shoulder, exiting the room with all haste to do as he claimed. The others still milled about beyond the doorway, the prince bowing his head in farewell to the others. After two days of effectively being off the grid, he was required to put in an appearance to maintain the illusion of his deception. With his placement given, he could do so, and then proceed to London immediately afterward. Synapse was shaking Wanda's hand, the auburn-haired girl no doubt imploring her to send her greetings to her brother when she made it to the secondary base. Even Kate seemed to be in good cheer, despite the ambiguous nature of her placement. He strongly suspected it had to do with her at least having a chance to be a part of the organization in some form. It would be interesting to see how she would make it work between the college courses that she'd be resuming in the fall. For a long time, Barnes sat on his own, the conference room his haven as he processed it all.

Primary team placement. He would, in essence, be an Avenger. It boggled the mind, made his heart simultaneously swell and shrink at the prospect. As Natasha had pointed out in the past, his path had been leading to that moment, almost from the second he chose to step out of hiding and join the fight over Sokovia. Still, to have it there, in front of him, to have truly arrived at that moment, it was nearly unbelievable.

A soft rap rebounded on the open door, and he flicked his gaze over. The cool disbelief thawed when he spotted the woman standing there, ocean eyes shining and a tiny, smug smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she came into the room, her quick, silent steps bringing her to his side. In that stolen, private moment, she bent, palm planted firmly on his shoulder and lips pressing firmly to his.

"Congratulations, _Medved',_ " she breathed when they broke apart, her smooth veneer returning almost instantly as she pulled away. The tiny flash of affection, though, backlit her irises, and he could not help but grin up at her. Of course, she had known about his placement before he did, but she had not given the game away in the slightest.

"Thank you," he replied, the spring of pleasure in his face slipping away as he focused on a nick in the far wall. She examined him for several seconds, her thumb brushing against the material of his shirt.

"You okay?"

Tipping his head to the side, he tapped a finger along the grain of the table top.

"Just...part of me thought it wouldn't happen," he told her, wryness twisting his lips. A low sigh came out of her then, and he looked back up at her, eyebrow inclining a fraction.

A sigh trailed out of her nose, and seriousness invaded her face. "It almost didn't."

That got his attention. It was generally known that placement would be decided by vote. So, to say that it had come close...

Clearing his throat, he wondered, "What changed that, then?"

A clearing throat came from the doorway, and both of them looked up. Stark stood there, his dark gaze offset by the bitter smirk on his lips. The tightness of his posture put Barnes on edge, but Natasha merely raised an eyebrow, unfazed. Glancing at her, Bucky noted the slight inclination of her head, the minimal confirmation of the unspoken truth. Brow furrowing, he stared at the billionaire, incredulous and skeptical of his choice. Why on Earth would he allow his parents' assassin be on the team he helped build?

Evidently, he had an answer for that, and did not need any prodding to share it.

"Personally, I'd rather have you where I can keep an eye on you myself, Barnes. Don't like the idea of you straying too far," he confessed, taking a step into the room and crossing his arms over his chest. Narrowing his eyes at the seated man, he continued, "Particularly if you snap."

Stormy blue eyes widened at the bluntness. Though he had made tremendous progress over the last year and a half, there was a part of him that had acknowledged that it may, perhaps, all be for naught. He was working his hardest to prevent a backwards slide, but it was something he still feared, deep down. To have that fear thrown back in his face, used as an excuse for someone to exploit, was unsettling.

Natasha stiffened beside him. In a warning tone, she ground out, "Tony..."

Placating hands were lifted, but the gesture was disingenuous, at best.

"Relax, Big Red," Stark snapped, the playful tone edged out by irritability. Raking his gaze over her, he spiked an eyebrow. "You should be pleased to have your bionic chew toy around more often. Though, given your last choice, I would say you've downgraded a tad."

Bucky felt more than saw the barely perceptible flinch that flashed through his lover, and his frown deepened. He would dare taunt her with that, with the travails of the past? The fingers of his metal fist curled, and he wanted nothing more than to send it flying into the other man's face. However, he also knew that Nat was strong, and could handle herself. Pulling herself to her full height, the fire of her glare pinned the tech genius in place.

"Given that he chose to leave us _all_ behind, I'm not sure I agree with you," she shot back, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes when she spotted Tony's expression of discomfort. She glanced down once more at Bucky, the hand on his shoulder gave a final squeeze. Pulling away, she marched briskly out the door, a nod and her parting words flung over her shoulder as she left. "Drive safe, Stark."

"Romanoff," was his farewell, his tongue clicking as she disappeared from sight. Casting another fast, harsh look at Barnes, he noted, "You better hope she doesn't fully emulate her namesake, or you might end up dead the next time you're gettin' busy. Although, wouldn't be surprised if it happened."

His mouth twisted, as though the words had tasted foul. Not liking the tenor of his words, nor the direction they were taking, Bucky rose from his seat, determined to end it there. If Stark kept picking, he would eventually lose his patience. And, unlike Steve, he couldn't hold onto it all that long.

"Probably would be no worse than what I deserve, right?" he snarled back, meeting the harshness with his own. The billionaire could still affect his fate, yes, but he would not fear that future. He already lived with the guilt, would live with it for the rest of his life. If the other man did nothing but grind him down and intentionally provoke him, he would push back, now.

Bucky didn't take more than three steps towards the door before Stark sidled into the frame again, blocking his way out. Inhaling sharply, he paused, hands clenching as he waited for him to either put up a physical fight or come back with a verbal retort. After all, it had been proven that in an enclosed space, he was likely to engage in one or the other when Barnes was there as well. Dark brown irises latched onto him, deep grooves wearing into his brow and around his mouth as he pondered something. Eventually, though, he chose to speak.

"You didn't have to do it." Off the confused expression, he elaborated. "Stick up for Parker, I mean. So why did you?"

Bucky's eyebrows inclined slightly, and he tempered his breathing. Whether he meant it or not, Stark had just exposed another tipping point in deciding to keep his vote as 'for.' Scratching the back of his neck, the ex-assassin searched for the words, ones that would not condemn him as he spoke.

"He was trying to be heard, I just gave him an opening. And..." he trailed off, considering the point. His blue gaze flicked over the other man's shoulder, his ear catching the baritone chuckle of the captain in the seconds that followed. Raising his shoulder, he murmured, "I'm used to it. Sticking up for the little guy is kinda second nature to me. From what I can recall, at least."

Long silence reigned between the two men, the quagmire of everything unspoken and the barely-healing hurts stewing in the honest truth. Neither gave quarter, neither showed fear, no matter what they felt internally. The hard set of the billionaire's jaw eventually loosened, and he lowered his lids, the darkness in his gaze spiking briefly.

"This doesn't change anything," he said, the tone firm as he made the pronouncement. Bucky merely nodded.

"Didn't expect it to." It was too much to believe that Stark would ever truly change his opinion about him, in his estimation. But when something new flashed over his eyes, he started to think that perhaps another level of understanding had been reached.

"Good." With that, Tony pivoted on his heel, flapping a hand at Parker and summoning him to come along. Uncertain of whether or not he could chalk it up as a victory that they'd made it through without killing each other, Bucky went to through the door frame to the hall. Exhaling softly, he looked up in time to catch the kid glancing over his shoulder to him as he followed his mentor, a discreet wave and gratefulness lighting his face as they rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

Victory, it was, then, he concluded. A small victory, but at least he was still standing, still breathing, and still free. It was plenty, for the moment.

 **xXxXxXx**

In the beginning, Helmut Zemo had many avenues to consider in regards to getting his revenge upon the Avengers. He could clearly remember the spill of rubble, the smash and crash of buildings as they collapsed. The screams of a woman, of the little ones unable to escape echoed in his mind so often, he wondered if he would be driven mad by it all. In a way, he was. When he lost his family, nearly a year ago, he'd lost himself. Who was to say his mind, at least a small part of it, was not gone, too? In his tent, as he received medical treatment on the ground, he saw them as they wandered among the people, ignorant of the true misery they had caused, and he cursed them. With the loss of his wife and children in the disaster of Sokovia, he had been consumed by the desire to spill the blood of those wretched beings, to make them suffer as he had in his grief.

Most of the ideas he had considered were downright foolish, conceived in the early weeks and consisting of no more than finding every one of them and putting a bullet through their heads (impossible and stupid, he would reflect harshly upon that later). However, some ideas had merit. At first, he had thought that his endeavor would consist of a construct that was entirely dependent on him. Intricate details involving the manipulation of the members, of pitting them against one another, of pulling the strings of various connections to make them squirm and destroy themselves flitted through his mind. However, such a plan relied far too much on chance and luck. And it relied on the world seeing the Avengers through a lens darkly, which they had, evidently, decided they could not. Instead, the world praised their efforts—piss-poor efforts in his eyes; they didn't manage to save his family, did they? Or many others', either—and supplied them with aid they did not deserve. Neither were the team cooperative; any fall-outs that had happened had never reached his ears, though he supposed he could have worked an angle on Stark.

No, he would not rely purely on chance. In his desperation, he would rely on others, others who understood the pain caused and the trauma wrought by the Avengers. It was why he sought out Crossbones, why he had released Jensen from prison. Working together, with their steady takeover of the black market underworld and deliberate measure to throw off the teams on both sides of the globe, they could achieve the goal of misery and destruction upon each one of them. And quietly, carefully, they could build their base, build a wide resistance that would rally others to the cause. All that was needed was an opportunity.

And finally, finally, an appropriate one had appeared.

Scanning over the email sent to him by a well-placed (and well-paid) spy, he was tipped off to something even greater than he could have hope for. Sending out a summons, he waited until Rumlow and Jensen came to his office, his palms pressed flat on the desktop as the pair approached and sat down. The good doctor had been experimenting in the lab with a new rifle she had constructed, something that would reduce kickback and cause far more damage. The mercenary, expressing interest in such a weapon, had come off a run in the south of France. The small job yielded little by the way of results, but it did hammer home the point that the Crossbones was not to be underestimated. With both in his presence, he felt the slight surge of giddiness rack him, though he did not allow it to register upon his face. The tight, coiled energy of his body, however, was evident as he printed off the email sent to him, passing copies to his comrades with alacrity.

The U.N. was proposing to hold a summit, in commemoration of the deal brokered between them and the Avengers (a pact made in blood, in his eyes). Invitations were garnered to those who had shown support of the Avengers World proposals, a review of the progress of the past year to be considered. The informant had pressed the importance that was being placed on the gathering, as dignitaries from all over the globe would be there. Whether or not the teams in question would make an appearance was speculated upon, but Zemo knew better.

They would make an appearance. He, and his compatriots, would make sure of it. A rough outline of the grand plan had surfaced, melding with the contingencies he had been making over the last year. It would take very little to infiltrate the assembly; money could take them far, and that, he did have. As a descendant of German nobility and Sokovian gentry, he did have that, indeed. It would be slightly more difficult to smuggle weapons in, particularly as the event was to take place in the paranoid American city of New York, but he could trust Rumlow to get around that. If they moved fast, they and the majority of the already-gathered troops could be stateside in a matter of days, poised to strike just as the meetings kicked off. The smaller details churned in the back of his mind, every small consideration being dealt with even as they spoke.

Jensen's eyes had brightened significantly at the proposed plans, eager to set it into motion. However, when he turned his gaze onto the mercenary, he was met with a wall of cold disbelief. He clicked his tongue, sitting back in his chair somewhat.

"I thought you would be pleased, Rumlow," he remarked, taking in the frown and bunching scars of his partner. "Patience has paid off."

"Yeah, _your_ patience," the other fellow retorted, irises flashing dangerously. He had left patience behind long ago, and it had progressed to the point that he could feel nothing but indifference. Shaking his head, he muttered, "I'm not sure about this plan."

The flippant tone dripping from his words made the other man spike an eyebrow.

"You make it sound as though capturing a good number of the world's leaders and representatives will be a trite endeavor. It's only a single part of a greater scheme," he reminded him, the layer of reprimand underneath heard loud and clear if the mercenary's grinding teeth were anything to go by. Rumlow had shown time and again that he had little faith in the endeavors of the past year, and time and again he had to prove their worth. Even after being proven right so often, he still expected it. Blowing a sigh out his nose, he murmured, "More will follow."

"Good thing that there's an army to back this up," Jensen noted wryly, fingers threading through her dark, cropped hair as her gaze gleamed.

Zemo smiled back at her coldly. "An army with your weapons."

"Good to know that time in Sudan wasn't a total waste," she returned, something a tad more predatory surfacing then.

Brock scoffed audibly. He didn't come down to the dirty, little bunker just to watch the pair make eyes at each other. God, if he wanted to see flirting done over armies and potential death, he would take his chances with his personal underlings.

"I didn't say I thought it would be trite," he cut in again, dropping his print-out on the desk. Scratching at one of the scars along his jaw, he spat, "I just don't think getting involved in the politics should be our focus. My goal has always been one thing, Zemo, you know that."

Brows lowered, and the stare the other man fixed on him was anything but friendly.

"Yes, but the politics will force the Avengers to act. Will force Captain America to act," he pointed out, the corner of his mouth twitching when he caught the mercenary's slight inhalation at the leader's name. Good to see that he had not lost faith in the cause, at least. Prodding the dropped print-out, he continued, "This will draw them out, and then...we will take them out."

Rumlow shook his head, not content with that. "There should be some incentive to make sure they do come out. If we did a little digging, find the right buttons to press, we could—"

At once, Zemo's face went blank, and he cut him off. "No."

"Why not?" the mercenary asked, finally driven into exasperation. For months, he been swallowing assignments and favors down, in the name of a cause they both were pursuing, but when he proposed something, it had to be slapped down? Perhaps he did not understand why it would be important to have such a contingency plan in the wings. "Potts has a couple of bodyguards, but that's easy enough to work around. And the captain's bitch is knocked up, wouldn't be too hard to grab her and—"

A fist slammed down on the desk, making the few personal items atop it jump and flutter at the force.

"No!" The shock of Zemo losing his temper, actually screaming, took Rumlow aback. Not once, even when he had flown into his own rages, did the smaller man ever lose control. Jensen's eyes had widened, and she pressed back into her seat, gaze ricocheting between her two compatriots. Within a few moments, the other man regained his composure, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses and clearing his throat. The hot rage gave way to an icy chill as he spoke again. "No families, no allies. Just them."

It was the only rule, the only point he would never bend upon. His revenge was reserved for those who deserved it. Only them. If Rumlow did not understand that, then that was his personal difficulty to work out.

Sitting up straight again, he pronounced, "Besides, it would be expected to target the weak ones. Almost a cliché, if you will. And why do them that favor?"

Jensen merely nodded in agreement, but Rumlow had gritted his teeth once again. Why do them that favor, indeed? Why indulge in a cliché?

Clichés were clichés because they, on some level, worked. That was why. However, he could see that if he did choose to indulge, he would be doing so without support. And he had come too far to break off now. With a great effort, he unlocked his jaw, fingers digging tight into the arms of his chair as he acceded to the plan.

"We'll do it your way," he said, the grind of his voice ignored as the other man smirked. He remained silent as he started to elaborate further, as Jensen told him of their stock and how much could be done in the next few days time. Yes, they would execute the plan he had drawn up.

 _'To start with,'_ Rumlow's brain amended inwardly. Because if, at any point, the grand Zemo's plan went sideways, he would jump ship and do what he had set out to do two years ago. No more rules, no more patience.

First, though, he would see if it would work.

 **xXxXxXx**

Giving her email a final, cursory check, Holly smiled to herself. In the months that had followed the disaster of Sokovia, she had been in touch with one of the people she had helped evacuate. Specifically, a little girl named Dasha. In her downtime between assisting other refugees and helping Maria contact major organizations to link with the Avengers' cause, she had visited with the child, cobbling English and Slovak together in an amalgamation as comfort. When she was released, she had given the young girl her private email address, imploring her to write her, if she so chose. With her aunt's help, Dasha had done just that, improving her knowledge of the second language and keeping in touch as best she could. For the first few months, she spoke about how she had stayed with her grandmother in the capital, her aunt switching departments so that they could remain there. Taking the initiative, Holly had included her niece Jodie into the email chain, knowing both girls were of an age and could most likely connect well. Seven months later, the kids were still in the full swing of it, sending messages back and forth weekly (and still CC-ing her in the line, acting as a go-between for their guardians on occasion).

Dasha had just returned a message sent a few days previously, stating how little she cared for her mathematics course and commiserating with Jodie about the lack of time spent away from the classroom. A new apartment building was being placed in Novi Grad, nearly completed, and her aunt was considering moving them both back there once it was finished. A file had been attached to the email, a picture scanned in for both of them to print off. In it, the dark haired nine-year-old was smiling, a hand raised in greeting as the photograph was taken.

The kid was a sweetie, Holly mused privately. It was good to see that some of the citizens of Sokovia had recovered, at least a little. It was good to know their efforts in those days, and the weeks following had not been in vain. She would answer later, when she was back at the house. Raking her gaze through the inbox once more, and finding nothing other than the reminder to call in to the editor about the website ideas she had for marketing her novel, she closed out her computer. Another day gone in the archives, another day spent wading through the past and properly cataloging it. Sighing, she signed off on her digital clock-out form, gathering her things and heading towards the door. A slight nod was given to the receptionist on the way out. With a majority of her time spent neck-deep in filing some transcripts from the 1980's (finally, she was allowed to approach closer to her own generation in her work; the outmoded terms of some of the papers of the past had her reeling on occasion), she was grateful to be heading out. There wasn't even a reprieve for lunch, given how Kay had show up sullen and cold, eating mechanically and humming whenever Holly tried to lighten the mood.

Though she was not given explicit details about the derailment between her and Sam, Holly did know enough. It was a hard road for the pair to tread, and Kay was uncertain about how far she wanted to go. It was a little heartbreaking, even for an outsider; being friends with both, and knowing that they really cared for one another, it was tough to see them going through the hell of indecision and refusal to speak to one another. Weeks had gone by, and Holly was unsure that the stalemate could continue much longer. A reckoning, a true reckoning, was on the horizon, she could sense it.

That, or it was just the baby giving her little punches to the stomach even as she pondered it all. Either or, really.

Her feet plodded heavily to the elevator, and she punched the button to go up, rather than to the garage. Prying would not do them any good, but perhaps she could recruit her husband into doing some gentle prodding of his own. Hers hadn't worked—Kay was quite stubborn when she wished to be—but Steve could probably get away with one of those guys' heart-to-hearts, in which little was said, but much was understood. Maybe. Just so that the pair would talk to one another again. With the trials completed and no mission work on the docket, he would be able to hear her out. However, it could wait until after dinner, after they'd gotten home and she parked herself on the couch. Ankle swelling was a thing that was starting to happen, and she was not pleased with it. Choosing to swing by his office before heading down to the car, she wandered slowly down the hall, passed the security points with relative ease. Mentally debating what to eat once they both were home, she knocked lightly on his door, the barest grunt on the other side permitting her to enter.

"Hey, hon, do you think—" Her half-formed inquiry died on her tongue when she walked in and really looked at Steve. Usually, he'd greet her with a smile, or at least look pleased to see her. That, however, was not the case at that moment. A hand was cupped over his mouth, the deep grooves cutting into his forehead. Shoulders were slack, though he was by no means relaxed. On the desk sat his cell phone, the screen dark and his free forefinger tapping at it in agitation. His distant, unfocused eyes snapped to her when she called out his name, wide and uncertain. Wide, uncertain, and red-rimmed with sorrow.

Trepidation filled her gut, and a palm went to the curve of her belly. At once, she closed the door behind her, the dull click of the lock echoing in the silence. Picking her way over to him carefully, she dropped her bag onto a visitor's chair. Going around the desk, she stopped beside him and rested her backside against it. He said nothing, just watched her as she approached, his breathing unsteadily filling his chest. Gently, she pried his hand away from his mouth, taking it between both of hers. Rubbing it tenderly, she felt a nervous tug at her heartstrings when he closed his eyes and swallowed hard. It was not good, whatever had made him act that way, but she was afraid to ask. However, she couldn't just let him sink in on himself in such a way. Not on her watch.

Clearing her throat once, then a second time, she forced herself to ask, "What's wrong?"

Eyes opened again, another breath taken, and he looked at her fully. The barest hint of a quaver was in the back of his voice, but he managed to get through his statement in due time.

"Holly. Peggy, she...she died. Last night."

Steve managed to get through his announcement in time for Holly to gather him into her arms, the sadness shared then.

* * *

 **A/N:**...Oh, dear. Things are escalating, dear readers. Hope y'all can hang on. :)

A lot going on in this chapter. Hope Zemo sounded okay. His plot for CW was something that relied heavily on luck and circumstance (and, yes, his intelligence), but as far as this storyline goes, I didn't think it would be applicable here. We'll see how this other one plays out, though.

Canonically, this is about the time Peggy Carter passed away in the MCU. Trust me, it hurt to write that line. Truly.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Next chapter has the potential to be late (I know, I'm saying it again!) because I'm celebrating early Christmas with some of my family this weekend, and that might eat into my writing time. I'll do my best, though!

Also, I want to reiterate how truly grateful I am to every one of you who reviews, favorites, and/or follows this story. Honestly, you all are amazing, and I wish I could do more to thank you all for your kindness and your aid. Christmas spirit is invading me a bit, haha.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	23. Chapter 23

The days that followed the announcement of Peggy Carter's death were somber, at best. An hour of silence/quiet reflection was had at the base the following day, the news affecting so many agents and workers. The woman was a pioneer, a trailblazer who had fought through several wars and kept a level, fair head; Peggy was an exemplary agent, someone that so many people looked up to. (Even Bucky felt the loss, his fragmented memories of her pushing to the fore and occupying him for a time.) For some, though, the reflection and silence went beyond that mere hour. Steve Rogers had spent the next few days either locked in distressed contemplation, or in the blankness he adopted when he had to work through whatever was troubling him at the moment. On top of being told about Peggy's death, her family had requested he come to the funeral and act as one of the pallbearers for her. Reluctance lit his features when he told his wife about the request, and how he had agreed to do so. The funeral was scheduled for that Saturday, the body of his old flame being transferred to the country of her birth.

Holly refused to be left behind, refused to stay back when she knew that her husband was in a state that was less than his best. She wouldn't let him go through the tragedy alone, no matter how he insisted that he was fine, and that she did not have to risk her health flying to England with him. The last thing he wanted was for any harm to come to her or the baby, and he was prepared to put his foot down on the matter. However, she shut down that argument with an actual, honest-to-God doctor's note signed off by Carol Watson. Slapping it before him at dinner, she merely raised her eyebrows and inquired what time she had to be up for the next day for the flight out. If he still insisted she stay back, she would book her own flight, she told him, and get herself there. After all, she had already been granted the days off by her superior, due to it, and her passport was up to date (which she had done immediately following the Ultron debacle, as she had not wanted to flout international travel laws anymore after that). Soundly beaten, Steve merely huffed, though for the first time in days, his gaze reflected something other a strange mixture of sadness and frustration when he looked at her. Early in the morning, they would be going out on one of the quinjets, a transfer to the secondary base already planned for the morning. They would ride along for it, provided they were there in time to catch it. If she slept in, that was her problem, he'd mumbled, a bit of his fire regained in those short moments.

It was almost soothing, seeing him slide back to himself for a second or two. He had lost that in those days, which Holly did understand. It was difficult, watching him endure it all without a word spoken about it. She knew him, knew he had grown up in a time where inner sorrows and hurts were not addressed by men. It sounded stereotypical and wrong, but it was true. He very much adopted the attitude of playing through the pain, and while it was a trait that served him well in the heat of battle, she did not think it had any place in the home, when someone who meant so much to him off the battlefield had passed away. It wasn't as if he treated anyone badly in the interim, either; indeed, even though he spoke little to her, she felt the weight of his affection doubling, holding her hand whenever she happened to rest nearby or snuggling against her tightly while they slept. As if he were trying to make it up to her with actions rather than with words. The off-kilter nature of it all was not unnoticed, though, and she could only wonder what was going on in his mind. Likely his therapist would have a better clue, if he had taken the time to call him.

Either way, the couple was aboard the quinjet before dawn on Friday morning, neither saying much to the others flying with them. A designated medic was commissioned to travel along with them, in the unlikely event of Holly going into early labor, but the fellow seemed to think she would be well enough. After all, her most recent exam had proven so, and there was nothing to determine that anything had changed all that much since then. The other agents flying with them seemed to deflate in relief; facing death on a nearly daily basis seemed to be quite different from a situation in which there was a potential for childbirth. Steve merely arched an eyebrow at the guy, his lips thinning as he personally (and wordlessly) made sure her seat harness was tight enough during take-off. Despite the design of the transport having been modified from the originals to fly faster, there were a few hours to kill on the flight. Holly spent a good majority of hers sleeping, respite found in dreams that was not common in her life at the moment. Unbeknownst to her, fingers threaded through her hair, hard lines cutting into Steve's face as he shifted her to rest against him.

The quinjet just managed to squeeze into the small, two-craft space of the landing pad in London. By then it was afternoon, and everyone was eager to get off of it. Chapman greeted them as they disembarked, a wan smile on his lips and temporary access cards passed onto Holly. As he gestured for them to follow him, he imparted that he would be joining them on the morrow, going as both a representative of the secondary team and as a previous member of MI6. Once inside, he led them to the back elevators, bringing them down to the guest apartments and bade them to get settled. The rooms were far more compact than the ones at the base in New York, the living area flowing directly onto a kitchenette, the high-top table and stools provided pushed against the far wall. The bathroom and bedroom were serviceable, if slightly smaller than what both were used to even in their own house. It wasn't as if they had room to complain, even if they wanted to; they were only there for a couple of nights, and would make do. There wasn't much to unpack, as Steve and Holly had a single case and garment bag each, and consequently they were left to bide their time. All that was still unspoken and hovering between them was growing heavier with each passing second, and so, despite having slept a good portion of the flight away, she had elected to rest for awhile in the small bedroom accorded to them. Steve nodded, imparting that he would go speak to Chapman about any needs or occurrences that could be addressed while he was there before heading out to the scheduled meeting with the other pallbearers. They would give him a quick run-down on the order of events the next day, and so he needed to go. Tipping her chin up, he kissed her briefly, telling her he would be back before it was too late. Before he could take a step away, she framed his face with her hands, drawing him in for another, longer embrace. A flicker of warmth flooded them both, and the barest hint of a smile played across his lips when he left. Jet lag reasserted itself as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, and so she collapsed on the bed, ready to push some of it back down.

Within a few hours, she was up and on her feet again, seeking out sustenance and wandering around the floors in curiosity. The last time Holly had been to England, it was for a similar duration of time, and so she knew that chances of out getting out beyond the walls of the new base—save for the funeral itself—were low. However, there were things to see, something that Pietro Maximoff had taken upon himself to show her when he found her about fifteen minutes into her endeavor. The young man was well, having just come off a scouting mission the day prior. Gladly taking a break from his reports, which he had been behind on for weeks, he offered to let her get a glimpse of the set-up they had. He went slowly for her benefit, bringing her around the multiple floors at a snail's pace (for him). There was a central meeting area around the top floors, a massive super-computer commanding a far wall. For once, the middle seat before it was empty, as Finesse had been sent off on a reconnaissance mission with Crystal. A tinge of red burned his ears at the mention of her name, and Holly couldn't resist prodding him a little about her as they made their way down to the canteen for dinner—something that he pronounced with a delightful, developed English twist to his accent. She was suitably impressed with all that she had seen; she could not fathom how it all fit in a single city block of the capital, but somehow it had been managed. Also, the bull dog that was allowed access everywhere was unexpected, but when Pietro merely shrugged and rolled his eyes as she pointed that out, she just went with it. Which was a little hard to do when she could feel it staring at her as she passed, but she brushed it off. By the time she returned to the apartment, it was late and Steve still had not come back. Shaking her head, she'd gone to bed early, a last message texted to him imploring him to be safe while he was out. Stewing in her worry, she fell into a fitful sleep, only roused when she felt herself being pulled back against Steve's chest as he settled into bed. A feather-light kiss grazed her hair, and she laid her hand atop his on her stomach, the thumping kicks of the baby asserting his presence then. A low hum of approval came from Steve, and was the last sound she was conscious of as she fell back asleep.

Saturday morning was heavier than the previous one, and even less was spoken between the two. At first, the residual jet lag and the abrupt shift between time zones had been enough to keep Holly silent, her concentration bent on getting up and showered in time for the funeral, but soon enough, it became oppressive. Nudges and slight touches, soft words and quiet gestures passed from her to her husband as they dressed, fleeting looks shot when each thought the other wasn't looking. Still, Steve remained near at hand as they went, unwilling to stray too far. Asking her for help with his tie, his fingers twitched at her hips as she did so, his jaw tightening. Glancing up at the red rimming his eyes, she was tempted to take him into her arms, beg him to say something about his grief, but she couldn't. She couldn't force him to do so, and she was not in the right frame of mind to ask for it. Light knocks came from the front door, and soon enough Steve was escorting her out, Chapman leading the way in all black, right down to the dress shirt. The offices were still, in accordance to a mandate made prior to the day's events. The secondary base would remain offline until the afternoon in respect for Peggy Carter. The trio cut a dark swatch through the base as they moved, descending to the street level with relative ease. A car had been procured to take them to the church, and Holly was guided to sit in the back while Steve rode up front. Chapman gunned it from the curb, frantic glances at his calm face telling them both that this was his natural state of driving (a necessary thing, he assured them, when traversing London. There really was no other way to drive, in his opinion, other than to act as though one owned the road). Quiet reigned, as always, and Holly was hard-pressed to suppress her sigh of slight annoyance. Not even the radio was on, and she was not willing to drive up the phone bill by using international data.

"Met her once, you know. Back in 2007," Joe murmured, unable to take the silence in the cab after about five minutes. As he negotiated a turn, he allowed a small smile to grace his lips as the memory surfaced, one that was not shared by the other passengers. "She knew the supervisor at the time, and was visiting. She walked in on one of my training bouts, wearing this flowery dress and using a cane, and after watching me go with the instructor for a few, informed me that my lack of grace was going to get me killed. Before I could say a word, she reached out and I swear, just touched me with a finger and I was flat on the ground. Got me with one of those wrist tweakers, ya know?" The smile grew wider, and when he glanced up into the rear-view mirror, he waited until Holly had given him a weak one in return. As if he knew that he would not get a thing from Steve, save for a flicker of the gaze. "Gotta say, when I got up and begged her to teach me that move, her whole face lit up. Think she thought I was gonna be pissed off or something, but nah. Ms. Carter was a class act."

At that, there was the barest curl at the corner of Steve's mouth. "That she was."

Catching it, Holly chose not to comment on it.

"Yeah," she muttered. Fidgeting in the back seat, she looked up in the mirror, another forced grin on her face. "So she taught you the move, I take it?"

"Yes. And called me Princess Grace for the rest of the time she was there," Chapman pronounced proudly, a little ray of happiness to be found despite the tragedy. As the car wound its way through the heart of the city, he let his tone drop a little, shaking his head minutely. "Woman was a walking legend, but she spent more time with the field agents than anywhere else. Not many who reach the top of the line do that."

There was little else to say to that. It was roughly around twenty minutes before the car arrived at its destination. The little church and graveyard were nothing like St. Paul's, but it was stately, columns stretching up and the oak doors standing tall and open. The last available spot was picked, a tight squeeze that had Joe almost performing a drift to get into it and nearly giving Holly a heart attack. As she was helped out of the back of the car, her legs shaking slightly after doing the scoot and rock forward, Steve whispered a farewell, promising to meet them inside after he and the others...he couldn't make himself say it, instead simply muttering that he'd be in shortly. Chapman gallantly offered his elbow to her, which she took after casting a long look over her shoulder as her husband walked away. They surged into the small crowd plodding up the few stairs to the door. Directed towards an open pew near the front, Holly sat beside Joe, staring at the altar. Brilliant sunlight caught along the stained glass behind the altar, brightening the blue paint and gold filigree on the ceiling above. A wreath was placed on a stand near the low platform where the coffin would be set, accompanied by a blown-up photograph of Peggy in her youth. Around the time she had joined the S.S.R., if Holly had to guess. The bright eyes, though muted by the black and white cast, still shone out, looking as though she could plumb out your secrets with a look and a grin, which she also sported. It was a far cry from the elder woman Holly had met over a year and a half ago, but the charm was undeniable. Glancing to her right, she shared a fast look with Chapman, who canted his head and sighed through his nose. Blinking, she took up the Bible on the seat next to her, idly flipping between the books and psalms on the pages as the church slowly filled. It had seemed that only moments had passed since they'd sat down when the processional music began to grind out of the organ, the gathered congregation rising to their feet and bowing their heads in respect as the coffin was brought in. The minister, robes stark against the waves of the congregation and eyes dark behind wire-framed glasses, led the way, reading from John 11:25. Speaking on how those who believed in the Lord would live even after death, he was followed after by the coffin, hoisted up high. Steve was at the front right corner, staring straight ahead as he moved, her heart clenching at the sight. Peggy's grandsons and nephews rounded out the rest of the party, each of them appearing dutifully saddened and broken. Once the minister was at the pulpit, the pallbearers were given leave to sit, Steve finding his way to her side and slipping his hand in hers. Being led in prayer with the rest of the congregation after baptismal water was sprinkled on the coffin, Holly's mind wandered a bit, considering the woman whose body they would be dedicating back to the earth shortly. She had not known her well, but she did wonder if the once-great agent would have been pleased to know how many loved and cared for her, respected her and her efforts in this world. How many still loved and cared for her. If she was t peace, now that she was free of her body and its limitations. Holly hoped for that, if for nothing else.

At the behest of the minister, a niece of Peggy's stood and approached the pulpit to give a tribute, introduced as Sharon. Beside her, she felt Steve stiffen, and she caught the furrow of his brow as he stared at her. Curious, she knew she could not ask anything without attracting attention, and so she listened as Sharon Carter extolled the virtues of her aunt, speaking of her life and her stance of sticking up for the good and the truth of the world, in the face of horrible debacles. If it came down to it, it was important to do as Peggy had done, planting oneself firmly and holding to one's beliefs rather than bending to the wrong ones, and Sharon implored them all to remember that about her. Steve's eyes followed her as she quit the pulpit, his head shaking and a puff of air blown out of his nose as she returned to her pew. Heads bowed as more prayers were given, the readings following tugging more and more at her heartstrings as one came after the other. Tears rose and fell from her eyes, trickling as time went on. Upon the commendation and the farewell given by the minister, the pallbearers rose once more, Steve slipping from her side to help guide Peggy out to her final resting place in the churchyard. Joining the mill of the crowd, she relied on Chapman to bring her through, his firm hand at the center of her back and tight grip on her wrist bringing her through safely. Shifting from foot to foot, she caught glimpses of the coffin being lowered, the minister's voice raised as the committal commenced.

 _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil..._

With a final, nearly inaudible thump, the coffin was at the bottom, and handfuls of dirt were scattered by the family members at hand as Peggy Carter was laid to rest. Once the last prayers were completed, Holly shifted through the crowd, a good portion of them quitting the scene without saying a word to the grieving loved ones. For his part, Joe traipsed behind her, watching out in case any harm should befall her in that sacred place. It only took a few minutes to find Steve standing off to the side, his hands in his pockets and leaning against the fencing of a nearby plot. Standing beside him, she followed his gaze over to the family members, a half-formed line of mourners striding up to each one and imparting their sorrow over their loss, or words of encouragement. Her gaze lingered upon the young woman, her blonde hair loose and stirring in the slight breeze. Catching the line of her eyes, Steve let out another sigh. Unable to help herself, she asked in a whisper how he'd known her; it was obvious that he did, given his reaction in the church. Evidently, she had been his erstwhile neighbor, once upon a time, one of Fury's agents that had been hired to keep an eye on him without his knowledge in D.C. That was said with a slightly bitter edge, but it wore away when he muttered that she had just done her job and nothing more. Part of it didn't sit well with Holly; she didn't know if was because Fury did not trust him back in the day, or that he had been deceived for months due to her assignment, but she did feel a form of retroactive outrage on his behalf. Either way, it was over and behind him, he'd declared. All of it. She had moved on to work with a new agency after the fall of SHIELD, and so had he. It was done. Holly agreed, with the exception of one thing. Carefully, she tugged on his hand to join the queue behind Joe. Last respects were called for, and they would deliver them.

One by one, they went down the line, the few family members thanking them for coming and accepting any form of well wishes or prayers. A few seemed to gawk openly at her, as if silently wondering why the captain would bring his pregnant wife to his former love's funeral, but she did her best to ignore it. It was her choice, and she wasn't going to let herself be bullied out of it. Near the end of the line, they came upon Sharon, her eyes lighting mischievously as she focused her attention on the couple. Extending a hand, she shook each of theirs. A beat passed in which nothing was said, and then Steve stumbled upon a thought that just had to be voiced.

"Related to one of the first directors of SHIELD, huh?" he remarked, the corner of his mouth barely curling. For her part, Sharon merely grinned, combing back some of her golden hair behind her ear. Something about the gesture seemed coy, and Holly's eyebrows rose minutely.

"She was always Aunt Peggy to me," she said, ruefulness in her expression giving way to the dolefulness. "She was a wonderful woman."

"Yes," Steve agreed, focusing on a point over her shoulder. The fingers laced through Holly's gripped hard, and she bit her tongue to hold back a whimper. The facade he'd adopted was on the verge of breaking, and she could see it.

"I'm gonna miss her," the agent was murmuring, crossing her arms and wistfulness coloring her words. When that failed to get anything but a grunt from the captain, an unreadable glance was shot at him. Wetting her lips, Holly stepped in to break up the awkward lilt the situation was given.

"I'm sure," she replied, drawing Sharon's attention onto her. Cupping a palm in the air, she went on, "We'll, we'll be praying for you."

"Thank you," was the sincere response, a single nod passing between the two women. Turning to look at Steve again, Sharon flapped a hand over to the grave, the headstone standing and gleaming new amidst the others. "And thank you, Captain, for—"

"Not a problem," he cut her off abruptly, jarred from his personal reverie. The point had been reached, and he could tolerate it no more. That said, the captain pivoted on his heel, a final nod given as he slipped away. Left in the veritable dust, Holly could only give the blonde woman a sympathetic smile and an apology on his behalf. Accepting it with grace, Sharon motioned for her to go on, a grin given in return at her kind words. Joe, who had observed all of this, walked with her out of the churchyard, saying he would get the car ready for them. Patting his arm in thanks, she trailed behind Steve, stopping just inside the door as he sank heavily onto the bench of a pew. He stared directly ahead, eyes locked on the cross at the end of the nave, the quiet punctuated only by the voices of those still outside. She braced herself along the inner wall, her shoulder pressed hard into the paneling to take the weight off her feet and the ache out of her back. As the minutes ticked by, the sunlight sliding through the glass windows, she waited, waited for him to make his peace. When he'd done so, a muttered amen punctuating his silent prayer, he rose, back straight and able to face the world. Spying her hovering by the back wall, he hastened to her side, his arm sliding around her waist and holding her close to him as they departed. Joe had brought the car around, leaning nonchalantly against it and whistling as he'd waited. As Steve slid back into his brooding mentality and Chapman wisely held his tongue, Holly made the resolution to find her backbone and speak to her husband about his unaddressed sorrows.

It wasn't until after dinner that she found the gumption to break the silence fully. The afternoon had been spent in another round of meetings, Fury and Hill appraised of the situation and further discussion about the U.N. summit the following week to be had. Holly had gone back to the apartment, answering emails from both Melanie about an archive project she would be resuming on Monday, and her editor about the progress on the promotion details she would be imparting about her book in the near future. The sun had set by the time Steve was finished, and she had been indulging in British television, though it really only served as white noise to her inner musings. After a repast of take-out from the canteen downstairs, he'd gone into their room, determined to pack and ready himself for their flight out the next day. Rinsing off their borrowed plates in the sink, she braced her hands along the counter, calming breaths taken as she prepared herself for the coming confrontation. Shutting off the water, she dried her hands and tiptoed to the bedroom, the door wide open as Steve started to remove his formal wear and place it back in the garment bag. Thus far, only his jacket, vest and tie had made it on the hanger, his shirt merely unbuttoned at the neck as he considered the clothes that remained in his other bag on the bed. Pushing up the sleeves of her sweater so as not to tangle her fingers in them, Holly crossed over the threshold.

"Steve," she said, catching his attention. As his blue gaze slid over her, an eyebrow spiking at her prolonged silence, she felt her spine stiffen. "Please..."

His brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Beneath it, there was a silent entreaty, the stillness of his form as he paused in his packing that begged her not to push, not to expose old wounds.

"...Nothing," she breathed, pivoting on her heel to walk away. A small, shaky breath echoed behind her, pulling her up short in her path. The old wounds were still sticking at him, and she did not want that. Even though she was not a trained therapist, she was his wife; she wanted him to tell her things, even the things that made him shake and shiver on the inside for no other reason than that he would not have to suffer on his own. Courage flowed back into her then, making her stand tall and turn back to face him. His eyes widened as she marched back into the bedroom, snapping the door shut behind her and blocking it physically. "No, not nothing. I want you to stop. To stop pretending. I know you're hurting, I know you're sad, and you're acting like, like a stone wall or something."

As she spoke, the confusion on his face melted, and it was replaced with a tempered form of calm. The kind that spoke of so much more churning beneath the surface.

"Holl, I...it's not worth getting upset over," he responded after a few moments, turning his attention back to his bag. "I'm fi—"

"No, you're not," she cut him off, the edge of her voice hard and unyielding. She wouldn't allow him to feed her a bald-face lie. At once, his features darkened, and he roughly shoved his bag away. Placing his hands on his hips, his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths before he met her gaze, his lips thinning briefly.

"Is this really what you want to get into?" he murmured in a soft voice, the quiet belying the storm within. She had pushed, and such was the state of his mind that he could no longer consider holding back. The line had been reached, and they were poised to cross it. When she did not answer, save with a raise of her chin, he did just that. "Fine. Let's talk about it. Let's talk about how terrible I feel, because she's dead and I didn't say good-bye. You want to know how angry I am that death waited to take her until she was feeble, and unable to help herself? Or about the complete injustice of it? Then fine, I'm supremely angry, which barely scratches the surface." He took a few steps towards her, emphasizing each weighty word as he spoke, the thin threads of control fraying and snapping one by one. "You wanna talk about how I almost said no to being here, because I was horrified by the prospect of being part of her funeral? Or about how guilty I feel, too?"

Taken aback, Holly's eyebrows snapped together. "Guilty?"

Through the haze of misplaced fury, a streak of pain broke through, and his shoulders tightened to hold back a shudder. A shudder of revulsion at himself.

"Yeah, I feel guilty, because I'm broken up inside by someone who isn't my wife, when she's standing right in front of me. My pregnant wife, carrying my son, being put through the wringer on my account. It doesn't feel like I can mourn someone I once...cared for, because it will hurt you and I despise seeing you hurt. It feels almost disloyal, and I hate that, too."

And the darkest part, the one he would never speak of aloud, was how easily it could be her in a box next, with him carrying her in her own coffin while he languished behind, lost to the world once again. Due to the serum, his longevity had tripled, and were he participating in a different career and lifestyle, he would outlive Holly. Being an Avenger had put them on an even playing field in that regard, but Steve Rogers knew how cruel and unforgiving life could be. It was a hard truth to own up to, and it was insistent on letting him know how easily it could be her next. Her, and not him, as fate seemed more content with snatching away his loved ones and cutting him deeper the longer he lived. The images of both Peggy and Holly being buried had circled in his mind nearly nonstop for days, and it made him sick to contemplate it.

At the moment, though, his wife was alive, and sporting an expression of disturbed frustration that would have made a lesser man flinch.

"I never said you couldn't mourn! I'd rather you actually own up to it than pretend like it doesn't affect you at all!" she snapped back, staring at him incredulously. _That_ was why he was shutting down, shutting out? Because he felt it was the best way to protect her, and himself? No. Jabbing a finger at him, she ground out, "Don't blame me for what's going on in your own head."

As that sunk in, he did flinch, finally. Her mark had hit much closer to home than was anticipated. When another stretch of quiet followed, when she did not address the other things he had stated, he spiked an eyebrow at her. He wasn't the only one holding back, he knew that much, and he wasn't about to let her get away with it.

"Besides that, you're okay with everything else I admitted? Really?" He scoffed audibly and frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't buy it."

Met with the blatant call, Holly felt the blood rush into her face. Were she of a sounder mind, one that was not hampered by the events of the last few days, she would have been able to respond better. Or so she would surmise after the fact; then, though, she felt his verbal push back, and was goaded into letting down her own walls.

"Fine, then I won't sell it. You want to get into the truth? Then yeah, a part of me is upset because you're broken up over another woman." She lifted a shoulder, a flash of shame streaking over her irises. "Petty as that sounds. And yes, I will probably always be a little jealous of her, because I know how much she meant to you, and that she might have been...well."

Shocked, his eyes grew wide as saucers at the implication of her words, and she dropped her gaze to her feet, embarrassed by her admission. It was useless to draw comparisons between his old life and the present, to dwell on what could have been over what was. She knew that. And she knew how much he loved her, cared for her. However, that had not stopped her from doing so, even after she had sought out Peggy. Granted, it happened very little since their engagement and wedding, but it did not mean she hadn't thought to herself where they both might have been had he not gone down with the Valkyrie, had he chosen to live then. The surge of undeserved self-pity rose, threatened to swamp her, and she cleared her throat.

"But that's not the point of this," she said, pushing past her inadequacies and looking him in the eye again. "The point is, she's gone, and you don't have to act like it isn't hurting you. She, she was a good woman, who deserved your loyalty. I've met her, remember. I liked her." That was true; the older woman was amiable, charming even when she had no reason to be so to her, a near-perfect stranger seeking a form of her approval. The corners of Holly's mouth curved minutely at the memory, falling after a second or two. "And you should mourn her, because...because she cared about who you are. She was a lot of things to you, Steve, and you have every right to mourn her. Just don't be afraid to. Not because of me."

Unable to stand there, to endure the pain she herself had brought upon them both with her forced confrontation, she turned and twisted the door handle. Pausing on the threshold, she inhaled sharply, fingers gripping the brass fixture to stop their trembling.

"And don't forget what you do have, still," she whispered, voice tremulous and piercing in the face of his silence. The door shut softly behind her as she walked out, and she missed the absolute brokenness decorating her husband's face as she did so. Steve sank onto the bed, head going into his palms as the miasma of misery floated around him, and the words spoken reverberating in his ears.

Sucking in deep breaths, Holly managed to make it to the counter in the kitchenette before her resolve broke. She bent, dropping her head onto her folded arms and digging her teeth in hard to stop from vocalizing her jumbled mix of emotions. More tears squeezed out then, and she nearly growled as they flowed; she'd had enough of crying for one day, and it did not seem the end would be in sight. She was trying to be strong, damn it, she mused acerbically. Evidently, that notion would have to be shelved as the sobs flowed forth, occupying her for awhile. Wiping her face forcefully with the end of her sleeve after a few minutes, she sniffed, a rumble in her gut telling her that both she and the little guy needed a bit more to go on than what they'd gathered from the canteen. Coughing, she tread carefully over to the living room space, swiping up her wallet from the end table by the couch. At that hour, she doubted there would be anybody in the kitchen, but she did know there were a couple of vending machines in the public offices that she could raid. They had credit card readers, so she hoped hers would work (she didn't have any usable cash on hand, otherwise). She would go get a snack, pig out, and collect herself enough to go to bed. With her back to the bedroom door, she hadn't noticed it opening again, silent on its hinges. Glancing around, she spotted her abandoned flats by the door, and she shuffled over to put them on. Before she could even make the transition from carpet to laminate, she heard the muted thuds of feet and felt calloused fingers closing around her wrist. The breeze of swift movement washed over her as she halted in surprise, her dark gaze widening as she stared at Steve. The steely flint in his expression fell away the longer they were suspended in the moment, his tongue eventually detaching from the roof of his mouth.

"Don't go," he murmured, voice gravelly and hoarse. His grip around her wrist tightened, and he took in a ragged breath. "Don't leave."

She blinked, looking up into his face. The walls he had built around him were crumbling, his eyes already filling. The cracks in her heart deepened, and she shook her head at once.

"I wasn't," she said, her tone sincere. Food could wait; she was needed there more, she realized, and she tossed her wallet away without a care for where it landed. Her free hand rose up, cupping his cheek. "I won't."

Leaning into the touch, he sighed deeply, eyes slamming shut at the tender caress. His brow screwed up, and he grit his teeth hard. However, it did not stop the pooling tears from worming their way out from under the lids. His arms wound around her then, drawing her close as he bent and buried his face against her shoulder. Hard, heavy gasps wracked him as he struggled to keep his sobs as quiet as possible, the sorrow overwhelming them both in that instant. Fresh tears worked their way out Holly's eyes as well as she threaded her fingers through his hair, her other palm rubbing up and down his back.

"I'm sorry, Steven, so sorry," she breathed, swallowing hard and trying her hardest to be his rock for the moment. She was sorry, for many things: for Steve and all that he couldn't tell her, for Peggy and her end, for slipping up and showing her not-so-good side in the middle of the suffering. She had to be better than that, and so resolved to be so. Little shuffling steps and nudges, small whispers were given to persuade him to sit, sliding down to the floor with his back against the wall. In the brief moment of separation, where she had to guide herself down slowly, she could see the tear tracks carving their way down his face, the harsh bite of his teeth in his bottom lip as he tried to hold it together. She felt his grasp at her hips, her arms as she followed to sit beside him, a palm bracing protectively over her bump when her bottom finally hit the floor. She reached for him again, and he let her guide his head down to her lap. A little part of him chastised himself for acting so childish, but the larger parts pushed the thought away. The warmth, the comfort was the only balm for him then, and he took what was offered. His arms wrapped around her and held her as he cried, his cheek pressed against the swell of her belly. For many long moments, they sat there, the distress and anguish felt inside released little by little as his tears stained her skirt. Memories of Peggy, of her courage and her tenacity, of her unwillingness to bend on her duty or her rights, flowed out, one after another as the loss hit deeper than before. The day before, he'd been gone for so long because he had gone looking for the bar, the bar in which she'd promised him a dance when the war was over. After the bombings, it had been rebuilt, but despite the unfamiliarity, he could not leave. He had just sat in a corner booth for hours, staring into space and thinking about everything. Of what had been, and what was, and how fast everything changed. He couldn't say much beyond that, few words making it out between the softened sobs, the pounding in his ears and his chest not blocking out her whispered responses. At one point, she began to hum slightly, tiny snatches of song as she stroked his hair, his neck, his back, in between telling him it was okay, that he would be okay. He could grieve, he could mourn, and it was something he could allow himself to do.

Long minutes passed before the raging portion of the storm had settled, the steady stream of tears turning to a trickle as he finally sat up. Tilting his head back against the wall, he took in deep breaths, trying to calm himself as Holly gently rubbed his arm. Fishing into his pocket, he withdrew the handkerchief there, blotting at his face. He was a runny, soggy mess, his eyes and nose leaking profusely in his grief. Wiping all away, he looked at her, noting how similar her condition was. The remaining clean corner was brought up to her face, wiping tenderly at the tear tracks. Letting it fall to the floor, he twined his fingers with hers, gazing intently at the woman he called his wife. Not perfect, but still good, in spite of everything. Thoughts crowded his mind, trying to find their way out of his mouth all at once.

"She was my best girl," he blurted, the first thought finally making its way out. He cringed at it, wondering how it would be received. A slight twinge at the corners of her eyes registered, but she nodded as gracefully as possible.

"I know."

"And you..." He paused, determining how to make his sentiment known. Swallowing hard, he lit upon the answer and took her left hand in his. For a few seconds, he just swept his thumb back and forth over her knuckles, silence pervading. Soon enough, he brought her hand to his chest, flattening her palm under his, her wedding and engagement rings pressing into his skin. Inhaling deeply, he murmured, " _T_ _á_ _t_ _ú_ _mo chro_ _í_."

Though her understanding of Irish Gaelic was nearly nonexistent, she did recognize the final word, one that he'd taught her himself. Heart, he had called her his heart, as he had when they'd been married, in the tender moments where it was simply them and the outer world faded. The endearment was one that he saved for when English was not enough. Her eyes fell shut as she absorbed his tenderness, given in a great moment of sadness. Taking in as deep a breath as she could muster, she grabbed his free hand and copied his movement, palm splayed over her heart as well.

"You're mine, too, love."

"Love," he repeated, resting his forehead against hers. His thumb swiped at the material of her dress, the faint beat of her heart under it. His other hand came up, sliding into her hair and holding her in place. "I do love you. So much. Don't think I don't, please—"

"I know you do," she spoke over him, reassuring him, skittering touches landing on his cheeks and neck. "Don't worry about me. Okay?"

" _It is quite possible, you know, to love someone and still let them go. Just as possible as it is to love more than one person."_

Peggy's words to her from months ago reverberated in her ears as he lifted her off the floor, staying with her as he carried her to bed. She believed in those words as he kissed her soundly, the comfort found in each other assuaging some of the pain and unhappiness.

 **xXxXxXx**

The load in Steve's heart was lighter as Sunday morning dawned. The first of May was overcast, but London was soldiering on, in spite of that. Even though he had not meant to break down, to weep in front of his wife like a small child, it was therapeutic to allow everything to fall away, for a few moments at least. She had been with him through it, and through the moments that followed, in which he had determined that he would allow himself to feel something other than anger and sorrow. Waking up to a peck on his temple that morning, he indulged in the distraction her mouth and her body offered, making up for the residual hurt and neglect that he'd shown over the last several days. It was later than they had planned when they finally removed themselves from the bed, gathering up the clothes that had been scattered the night before and shoving them into their bags haphazardly in preparation of their flight out. The quinjet returning to the states would not be ready to go until noon, so there were a few hours to fill after they'd changed and finished packing. Hand in hand, they made their way down to the canteen, joining the team installed there in brunch. Jeanne and Crystal had returned from their mission the night before, and were excitedly trading off telling about the chase that had ensued due to the target bolting upon spotting them. T'Challa and Emily were there as well, adjusting to the changes in their lives little by little. The prince had greeted them both politely, kind sentiments expressed to the captain's wife as they sat down. Thus far, there was not much to complain about, as he was relegated mostly to diplomatic work at the moment, but soon he would be joining his father, the king of Wakanda, at the summit, performing his official and unofficial duties to the best of his ability. For her part, Emily remained soft-spoken, although she and Jacques had already drummed up a rapport (he'd snap something in French at her, and she'd fire off a rebuttal in Spanish, clever quirks of the brow and proud smiles passing between them). It took some doing, but they were persuaded to join the others in the rec rooms located on the second floor, the team looking to spend time in other things besides reports and paperwork. Synapse and Jacques were out the door, on the way to Mass at a nearby Catholic church, but the others had remained. Steve had been answering some of Finesse's questions, as she was looking to improve the database and update it to reflect his history and stats accordingly, when Chapman interrupted, pointing out an arrival just outside the clear inset of the door. She had been granted access to the building by him, but it was a delivery for the captain that had brought her there. Eyebrows shooting up, Rogers excused himself, striding over and opening the door for entry.

"Agent Carter," he said, moving back as she stepped into the room. The buzz of conversation and radio chatter had not ended when she'd entered, though Joe did give her a lingering look from across the way (until Finesse, catching him staring, gave him a sock in the arm and marching away as he demanded an explanation). The memories of two years ago, when she'd pretended to be a nurse called Kate, surfaced rapidly, but he just as swiftly pushed them down. Though he'd been greatly upset and displeased at the time, he could not hold onto it indefinitely. It had been her job, and it was over. He could be civil that time.

"Captain," she greeted him, a pleasant smile on her face. Before he could inquire as to her presence, she proffered a handful of manilla folders, neatly and studiously labeled. "Just here to drop off some files while I'm still in town. My boss is working in conjunction with Fury on a few things, had a few proposals for you to take back with you to the states."

"Okay." Steve's eyebrow arched the tiniest bit. Odd for an agent to act as a gofer, but he still accepted the files. He merely accepted it with a hint more suspicion than if somebody else had brought it. "I'm sure he appreciated it."

"He better," Sharon remarked, her lips curling in a tight grin. Lifting a shoulder, she crossed her arms and confessed, "And, well, I volunteered. He's busy with some of the higher-ups, about the summit in New York. Figured he could use the help."

That earned her a smirk. Steve did not know much about the guy heading the branch of the CIA that encompassed her department, but the little that he understood of the fellow had him pegged as something of a neurotic with a level of snark close to that of the ex-director of SHIELD. He had no doubt that the guy would look upon anyone willingly assisting him as a godsend.

"Fair enough. It's not exactly close, though," he noted, his understanding of the CIA housing being in a hotel on the other side of the city from where the base was. Snorting, he continued, "Certainly not like being able to slip stuff under my door in D.C."

The recollection made them both snicker slightly.

"True. That was handy," she said, her gaze flickering downward for a second or two. "Being your neighbor wasn't all bad, even if it was an assignment."

Unsure of what to make of that, Steve barely had his mouth open when she met his gaze squarely, an interruption on her tongue.

"I recall you asking me to coffee, once."

Something in her tone caught his attention, and he suddenly realized that, if handled incorrectly, the conversation would descend to a level he did not wish to tread. Physically, he took a step back, inwardly thankful that corridors surrounding the main meeting area were wider than in other parts of the base.

"I recall that you said no," he pointed out, without any venom in his voice. Canting his head, he smiled and mused, "In retrospect, makes a lot of sense why."

"Yeah. I suppose it does," she replied, her smile turning rueful for a moment. It would have compromised her orders at the time, her mission, if she'd allowed him to get any closer than he had, and while she felt she'd acted rightly at the time, she was unsure whether that was truly the case. In a rare moment of honesty, she declared, "Sometimes I wonder how it would have been if I had said yes."

The tiniest flush erupted along Steve's cheekbones at her pronouncement. There was a time he had wondered the same thing, if he were being truthful. But...

His gaze trailed away from her, over to where Holly was sitting with Pietro and Crystal, chatting lightly as she bent to scratch between Lockjaw's ears. There was a hint of fatigue about her features, but when she smiled, it faded away. Her irises lit up as Pietro nodded at a question of hers, his fingers curling around Crystal's wrist as she made a flyaway gesture and almost backhanded him. The emotion she wrought in him even at a distance made his heart beat faster, fondness laced with something deeper flooding through him.

There had been a time when he wondered what would have been. But not now, not any longer.

"Thank you, Sharon," he replied instead, the small shake of his head dispelling any remaining musings. "I'll make sure Fury gets these straightaway."

He held out his free hand, a peace offering. Taking it, she shook it strongly, looking at him and nodding her head once.

"You're welcome, Captain Rogers. And thank you," she responded, the message received. The tread on the carpet behind her alerted her to a new presence, and as she dropped Steve's hand, she turned and grinned. "Mrs. Rogers...Holly, hello."

"Hi, Sharon," the brunette said, a mite hesitantly as she circled to her husband's side. She'd gotten up to wander back down to the canteen, see if she could guilt the cooks into giving her something more (they couldn't refuse a pregnant woman, surely), when she'd spotted Sharon speaking with Steve. Curious as to her presence at the base, she decided to head directly to the source—nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all. Keeping her tone neutral, she asked, "What brings you here?"

The blonde's smile never wavered as she waved a hand at the files Steve was holding and explained, "Drop-off before heading back home. Thank you both for coming yesterday, by the way. The gesture was appreciated."

A lump formed in Steve's throat, and he could only incline his head. Going to his side, Holly stood by him, taking his free hand in hers and giving Sharon a nod in empathy.

"Sure," she replied, unsure of what else could be said. A minute or two of quiet hovered around the trio, and then the agent straightened her spine, tipping her head towards the opened door.

"Well, I should probably get going," she announced, clearing her throat and taking a half-step away. "Gotta pack up and get ready to head out."

"Do you...want some coffee or anything before you go?" Holly offered, acting on behalf of the others. Her understanding of manners would not let her go without at least a polite gesture being made. She could feel the bright blue gaze boring into her from her right, but she brushed off her husband's inquisitive stare. Hooking her thumb in the direction of the canteen, she muttered, "I mean, I can't drink it, but hey, I'm always up for living the rush vicariously through someone else."

"I...yeah, actually, that would be nice," the agent accepted, the wear of the morning starting to weigh on her. There was still so much to do over the coming week, and her boss would not be in a pleasant mood, no matter if she rushed back or took her time. It was just as well that she got some caffeine in her first. And her access pass allowed her that far, at least.

"Supposedly the stuff downstairs is pretty decent," Holly tempted her further, and Sharon chuckled.

"Alright, I'll take a chance, and give you a verdict, if you like."

"Cool," the brunette stated. Looking up at the captain, she asked him, "You coming with, Steve?"

A little confused by the shift and turnabout, Steve shook his head and grinned wistfully.

"You go on ahead, doll. I've got a few calls to make." It was true; he had to get in touch with the team back home, and also yet another call had to be made to Fury now about the delivered files. Carter could do as she pleased, but he was not about to make a run to wherever on God's green earth the helicarrier had been directed to, and so they would have to discuss pick-up.

"Alright," his wife conceded, raising herself up a little. Bending, he met her halfway for a kiss. Releasing his hand, she patted him on the arm before turning away. "Don't take too long."

"Of course not, dear," he retorted, more humor in his voice than had been present in the last four days. Sharon, witnessing all this, let the last embers within flicker and die. It was time to stop wondering, and time to go on, as her aunt would no doubt tell her to. She couldn't begrudge him his happiness, and so she wouldn't. Following Holly out of the room to the stairwell, she instead inquired after her health, and how far along the other woman was with her pregnancy, and telling her about some truly heinous names she'd heard were being used for children those days.

By midday, Sharon Carter had departed, the quinjet was loaded, and the Rogers family was on their way home. Take-off went without a hitch, and the agents aboard were a little more comfortable traveling with Holly, having gotten through the first one with her and the baby still intact. The medic had merely shrugged off their behavior, inwardly laughing as he stretched along one of the inner bunks of the left wing to sleep the trip away. Steve had extricated himself from his harness the moment they'd leveled out, wondering about the jet's condition and how likely it looked that they would arrive ahead of schedule. As the agents at the helm speculated, he just asked them to keep him updated as they went before venturing back to where his wife was still seated. The book she'd packed was resting on her knee, her palm curving along her swell and a tiny wince dancing across her face. Frowning, he cleared his throat, watching as her lids fluttered open.

"Are you okay?" he asked her in a hushed tone, tucking some of the hair that had fallen out of her braid behind her ear. Affectionately, she grinned up at him, patting the empty seat beside her.

"Sit with me," she bade him, and he did so, allowing her to take his hands and rest them upon her stomach, the liveliness of their son as he kicked and turned occupying them for several minutes. Though the sorrow and the hurt was not fully healed, it was assuaged, for the time being.

* * *

 **A/N:** Well, wasn't that a depressing pre-Christmas chapter? Oops...See why I stick to the fluff more often than not? I'm good at the fluff, not so much the angst.

Peggy's funeral. How many hearts did I break this week? :-P Inspiration for the church came from St. Pancras New Church in England. I think it would appeal to Peggy; she wasn't all about flash and bang, you know.

A part of Steve will always care for Peg, even though he does love Holly and has built a life with her. And Holly does get that. She's pregnant, hormonal, and the person she cares for most is hurting, so part of the situation hits a raw nerve. She does betray herself in a moment of weakness, but she's human, after all. It happens.

And how about that? Sharon Carter, coming in and accepting things as they are in this universe with grace. As I think she would, particularly as Steve and she hadn't really done anything but flirt in the hall a few times. Not exactly an affair to remember. After two years, if she was expecting something more from him, that would make her more than a little clingy, and I don't think she would be. So life goes on. Personal interpretation. Also, the jealousy trope is so played out, and is one that I personally despise. Sorry, ain't no cat-fight gonna happen here!

I don't know Irish Gaelic (despite my half-Irish heritage, boo) so I used an online translator for Steve's one line:  
 _T_ _á_ _t_ _ú_ _mo chro_ _í.—_ You are my heart.

Next week, we're getting into that U.N. summit...oh, boy...

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, the Bible, etc.).

Merry Christmas/happy Hanukkah/happy Kwanzaa/happy winter solstice everybody! Hope you have a safe and great holiday season!

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	24. Chapter 24

The eve of the United Nations summit, made to commemorate the year-long standing between them and the Avengers, was at hand. The last few weeks of April had been spent in constructing and organizing the event, but as the Avengers themselves were going through internal restructuring, most of the itinerary was compiled by the participating nations and Hawley. A general outline of events had been forwarded to the captain and the other directors, some of the ideas either calling for adjustment or outright vetoed, but there was one that had not been dealt immediately. With the summit on the horizon, it was time to choose who would be representing the teams. After emailing the selected parties for their consent, of course.

"Delegating, Rogers?" Maria Hill had said when she sat in the visitor's chair of the captain's office. A private meeting had been set up to cement the final plans for the following day, decisions to be forwarded as needed to Fury, Hawley, and Chapman afterward. Noting how he had listed of a few choice representatives for the summit, and had not included himself, she had looked at him in mock astonishment. Quirking a brow, she muttered, "Figured if anyone were willing to take one for the team, it'd be you."

Steve gave a wan smirk to the base director. "When it comes to bureaucrats? I don't quite have the level of...finesse it takes to deal with them. Romanoff and Rhodey will represent us well enough."

And after the previous week, he was in no shape to be humoring politicians and policy makers. As someone who very much preferred the work to the talk, it would have bothered him anyway, but he was still mending, still healing, and it would be better for all that he did not force himself into that situation. Certainly, he could be polite and eloquent, but his temper would fray quickly, and it wouldn't do the team any favors.

Maria's eyes had a glint to them as she glanced up from her tablet, one that seemed to imply that she understood what he wasn't saying. Dipping her chin, she drew her finger over the screen, tapping to open another file for perusal.

"T'Challa, too," she noted aloud, tucking back the sweep of her bangs. "It's something of a coup, getting him in on one of the teams. The U.N. reps see it as a bone being thrown. The ones who know, at least."

Steve hummed low in his throat, his head tipping to the left. "They can think what they want; they agreed to the immunity and autonomy clauses, and those aren't changing. He was up to the challenge. Wouldn't have gotten the job if he couldn't do it, simple as that."

"Right. So, contingency plans?" Maria inquired, moving onto the order of business she was most concerned about. Straightening his back, Steve gave her a brief overview, the details of which could be hashed out within the next few hours.

"There's the typical security measure for inside, but it won't hurt to put in some back-up. Minimum of three members inside, and some of the helicarrier crew on the street with the others. The rest of us will be on-call in case anything truly goes wrong." And he meant that, honestly; both teams would be prepped and ready to head out at the first sign of distress. The newest iteration of the World Security Council was hasty to assure them that they would cover the security of the event, but the Avengers had countered that they would be, as well. Purely for that fact, Fury had directed the helicarrier to hover as close as possible to New York City for the express purpose of fast landing. Chapman and his remaining team members would be there, and he made sure that the rest of his would be no less than fifteen minutes away from the base at all times for the next two days. Even Tony was on alert, though he supposed the billionaire would have been, regardless if he'd been emailed prior to the event or not. If trouble came, they would be ready for it. Shrugging his shoulders, he crossed his arms over his chest. "The rotation needs a try-out, so we'll see how it goes."

The brunette managed a tight grin, one that did not reach her eyes. "Hope for the best, plan for the worst."

"Realistic optimism. Or so my wife has termed it."

An eyebrow rose minutely at that, and she let her grin turn genuine. "I see. Haven't spoken to Holly in a while. I assume she's fine."

The corner of the captain's mouth curled, but it was unable to hide the slight wince that preceded it.

"Well, she got up in the middle of the night to eat the last of our peanut butter and pickles, so yes, I'd say she's alright," he retorted, an involuntary shudder coursing through him. That was a disgusting combination, even worse than her mustard phase. It was definitely not something he expected to discover when he went to investigate the rummaging noises downstairs. For her part, Maria merely grimaced and tutted in minor revulsion. Shaking her head, her bright eyes focused intently on him.

"And you?" she asked, gesturing with her free hand. The question she dared not voice was in her eyes, the one that sat with those who knew him and his past. How was he, now that he had buried one of his remaining companions of the old days? How was he holding up? It was plain as day to his eyes, and it rankled. It was truly something he did not wish to discuss, not at that moment. Instead, he chose to answer flippantly.

"Pickles and peanut butter aren't a combination I like, so it's hard to tell," he told her with a wry smile. When that elicited the barest chuckle in response, he sighed. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to at least give her something to go on. Swallowing, he met Maria's eye-line fully and murmured, "I'm doing okay."

Truthfully, he was. Each day was slightly better than the last, once he fully admitted to his grief and allowed himself to mourn. It also helped to be in interminable meetings and conferences in regards to the summit; time was consumed at an alarming rate just attempting to get everything in order and still participate in missions.

And Holly herself had been guiding him, nudging him on with her steady affection and inner well of strength when he was home. Once the initial unloading had happened, things between them started to slide back to the regular state of equilibrium that they had grown accustomed to. Though it was edged with the darker truth of the world, it did not take away from what they had. From what they were on the verge of having, he mused inwardly.

Hill inhaled deeply, and dipped her chin. "Good."

The rest of the meeting went by swiftly, and Maria had the list of attendees to forward to Fury and Chapman when discussions were concluded. After another round of emailing was put through, Steve went on with filing his reports, his mind occupied thusly until the alarm on his phone went off. With Holly's help, he'd programmed the device to do so, the alert reminding him to get home at a reasonable hour (if he wasn't on a mission, naturally). The last of his reports were saved to the server and dropped in the physical outbox, his keys, shield, and jacket snatched up, and he was out the door. Entering the elevator, he stood towards the back, the crush of agents going in and out on seemingly every floor pressing him into the wall. Many were still onsite, despite it being a Friday, and their chatter contained many speculations in regards to the summit. The local affiliates would be covering the opening ceremonies, and the closing speeches, but each one had an opinion as to how the U.N. would conduct the affair. They were welcome to it, in his mind. The itinerary was out of his hands, and the rest would be up to those actually organizing the affair. The remaining few left with him as the elevator finally stopped on the garage level bid him farewell, and he politely did the same. Mentally, though, he was already miles away, already home.

It was unsurprising that his wife had beaten him back to the house, her car already situated in the garage. As his own truck pinged in its cooldown, he swung out of the cab, casting a glance to the covered motorcycle in the corner. It was time to give it a check, take it out for the season, he thought idly as he passed between doors. What was (mildly) surprising was seeing Holly nesting at the kitchen table, her laptop open to the Facebook page she was constructing for her book and shoved to the side in favor of the pie tin seated there. The half-empty pie tin that Holly was scooping into. Crust and cherries disappeared into her mouth, moans of appreciation floating out of her. Clearing his throat, he pulled her attention away from the dessert dish, her eyes wide as she greeted him. Evidently, she had made a stop at the store before coming home, he mused as he shucked his jacket off and laid it on the nearby counter with the shield. And still managed to beat him back home.

"Sweetheart," he crowed, the faux sternness of his expression melting away as she gave him a guilty smile. Rolling his eyes playfully, he shook his head at her. "Couldn't wait for dinner?"

"Honestly, no. It would've been impossible," she said, excusing herself as she shoveled up another forkful. Snorting, she muttered, "Cravings are a bitch."

Personally, Steve was of the opinion that the mood swings were the worse of the two effects of pregnancy; it was alarming to see how fast she could go from well to weepy in a matter of moments. But he had learned by then to not even hint at those occurrences; generally, Holly would realize she was acting like a total psycho—her words, not his—within minutes and was embarrassed by it. Instead, he merely clicked his tongue and pulled the nearest chair closer to her before sitting down.

"I just pity your poor stomach," he told her, reflecting on her midnight consumptions and how the pie would likely take things over the edge. Spying the smear of filling at the corner of her mouth, he reached out and brushed his thumb to sweep it up. Her eyes tracked him as he brought his hand away, darkening a fraction. With a slight incline of his eyebrow, he brought his thumb to his mouth, licking away the excess and smirking. She canted her head, but not before he spotted the flare of her pupils.

"Hey, this is making it happy."

"Whatever you say, doll," he agreed peaceably. Grinning, she dug her fork into the pie again. However, the bite of cherries and crust was held out, her head tilting in question. Off his short nod and opening mouth, she brought it up, feeding him the treat with ease. Around the flakes of the crust and the sweetness of the filling, he mumbled, "Than' 'ou."

Another forkful disappeared into her mouth, and she giggled. Scooting forward, she raised herself up enough to lean over and plant a kiss on his lips. A hum of contentment rushed through him, overwhelmed by the deeper emotions as he swallowed and chased after her retreat. Tender, slow sips were taken and given, the affection warming them both. When the kisses slowed and stopped, his bright gaze scanned over her face, palm cupping her cheek and the pads of his fingers tracing along her skin.

"You're welcome," she breathed, bumping the end of his nose with her own and chuckling low. Rising fully and pulling away, she went to the silverware drawer and fetched up a second fork. "Got everything worked out?"

Glancing over, he spotted the obvious concern in her eyes. The anticipated summit was hardly a secret, after all, even if she didn't have all the details. Canting his head, he sat up a little straighter, taking the fork from her when she shuffled back to his side.

"Everything's ready to go, and the others will be on the first flight out tomorrow," he affirmed, a slight emphasis on the words that indicated he would be staying back. Barring any major emergencies, of course. Resolutely, he set his jaw and nodded once. "We're ready."

Holly's eyebrows rose a bit when he adopted his serious persona, and she exhaled slowly.

"Forgive me, but I do hope certain aspects of the prep will be rendered moot."

A pointed look passed between husband and wife, worry and fear pushed under the light tone she'd taken. His hand came up, palming her hip through her clothes and rubbing gentle circles with his thumb.

"Me too, doll. And who knows?" Steve responded, shrugging a shoulder. "They probably will be."

That was his genuine want and wish for the next day's events. He wanted nothing more than to come across as over-prepared, or even paranoid, for the sake of things going off without a hitch. Perhaps they would get lucky; fortune often came at the oddest times in his life, and maybe that would be one of them. In the back of his mind, though, he couldn't quell the notion that something, anything would go wrong. Still, he looked up at her, meeting her gaze squarely and hanging onto that desire. Her only answer to that was a tight grin, one that didn't reach her eyes. She wasn't an idiot; she knew that if things went badly, for whatever reason, he and the others would be called in to handle it. One way or another. It didn't sit well with her, that much was obvious, but she said nothing further, nary a complaint passing her lips. Maybe his wishes would be realized; maybe she would be able to enjoy the weekend with her husband in peace. After the last couple of weeks, it would be nice if it could turn out that way. Instead, she simply grabbed her chair and moved it so it was right next to his, dropping into it before dragging the pie pan over. And as he took her hand in his, he hoped that he would be proven incorrect on that score as they both dug into the last of the pie.

At least once.

 **xXxXxXx**

"You know, this is breaking the whole 'low profile' edict I've been under for the last year," Bucky grumbled, playfully acerbic as he dropped onto the couch later that evening. The quarters he'd been provided with upon moving permanently to the base weren't opulent, but in comparison to the cramped space he was allotted on the helicarrier, it wasn't so bad. At the base, he actually had a couch, for starters. And a private kitchen, which was a godsend due to his anxieties (that, and it was good for some privacy. It had seemed that the last two weeks had been nothing but back-to-back training bouts with the entire team, whom he couldn't get away from).

Also, the redhead at the opposite end of the couch, sipping from the bottle of beer she'd pilfered from his kitchen, was lovely, too. She glanced over at the opened email on his laptop, the email from Rogers bright and blaring on the screen. Granted, he had only indicated that Bucky be one of the few selected for security duties for Rhodey and her, but she could readily understand his anxiety.

"It'll be fine," Natasha asserted, placing her bottle down on the coffee table. It sat among the emptied plates, their shared dinner having been finished mere minutes beforehand. As he'd taken up residence just down the hall from her, they switched off spending time in each other's places. Much better than pilfered sandwiches and video calls, he mused privately. Swinging her legs up and onto his lap, she arched her back in a stretch as he snorted. "It's not like you're actually going to be in the spotlight."

Momentarily distracted by the curve of her body, and the cling of her leggings and sweater, Bucky shifted in his seat, clearing his throat loudly.

"Maybe not, but, well, anybody looks sideways at me and they'll wonder," he retorted, a wry twist to his lips as he answered. If he was recognized, truly recognized, the risks would increase, and he was unsure of what he would need to do in that case. His hand, his flesh one, encircled her ankle, the pads of his fingers brushing back and forth over her skin.

"Then make sure they see nothing. You are rather good at that."

"I don't see the merit in going as it is," he groused, lines cutting into his forehead as he considered it all. He knew he had been selected with a purpose, had known Steve wasn't going to just throw him to the wolves, but the nagging feeling in the back of his mind told him it wasn't going to be a simple meeting and discussion of terms. Not with everything that had happened in the last several months. Something was on the horizon, he could sense it. And the summit would be the perfect time for that something to descend upon them. Which would be his luck, frankly. Carding a hand through his dark hair, he observed, "It will expose some of us unnecessarily. If anything goes wrong—"

Legs tucked, Natasha swung up onto her knees, and her finger was laid across his lips, hushing him.

"James," she began, interjecting before he could try and talk around it. Her tone was purposefully low and gentle as she told him, "It doesn't make sense for the U.N. to hold a summit in honor of a year of a successful partnership and not have members of that partnership be there. We needed representation, and Hawley can't do it all."

Finished, she removed her finger from his lips, her palm resting on his chest. Thinking herself successful in getting her point across, she was a little chagrined when the furrow of his brow had not dissipated. Instead, it was joined by the sarcastic quirk of his mouth, the grin less than genuine.

"Thanks for the reassurance that things won't go wrong," he spouted, chuckling humorlessly as Natasha rolled her eyes. Letting his head tip back against the cushion, he felt the slow rub of her fingers on his shirt, the heat bleeding through the fabric to his skin. His metal arm curled around her waist, holding her to his side as his eyes closed.

"You and I aren't foolish enough to pretend that it might not happen," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The soothing ministrations of her hand traveled up, grazing his neck and causing a stray shiver to course down his spine. "The Security Council has their own force on-hand, and, well, we will be there. If anything happens, then we can get the word out for back-up. If we need it, of course."

The verbal reminders of their own personal expectations, about the realities of the world they lived in, was something she needed as well. The people, the civilians, had hope and faith that the institutions designated for the good of the world would be untouchable, that their selected leaders would remain unharmed even in the face of great opposition. However, it would be almost moronic to ignore the fact that the Avengers had many enemies out there. Any one of them would leap at the chance to attack if they thought they could get away with it. The United Nations building would not be off-limits, if someone chose to take a stand during the event. All they could do was remind themselves of what would be at their disposal, and what wouldn't be.

"Right," he replied, eyes opening slowly. A few seconds of quiet passed, and he couldn't repress the words any longer. "I just can't shake the feeling that...that something will happen. And what, what might need to be done..."

He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. All his fears and insecurities hovered at the back of his mind, threatening him like they always had done since his first days of freedom. He had been an active agent for a few months, and had acted upon his own accord on and off the year prior to his rehabilitation. Bucky knew full well that if anything were to go awry, it would be on a grander scale than what he'd been part of recently. It would be on par with...the helicarrier disaster, and though he hadn't been acting of his own volition in those days, he had known something that extensive would require major effort on his part. Effort that could end in the worst ways, and not to everyone's benefit. Threading her fingers into his hair, Natasha tugged gently, nudging him to look at her fully.

Meeting his gaze unflinchingly, she said, "If it does, then whatever you have to do, do it. You're an Avenger now, Barnes."

An Avenger, and he would not be alone. That was the material point, the one she held in her gaze when he looked at her. Several long moments passed, no words exchanged and no other sounds besides the click of the refrigerator and their breathing.

A snort shot out of him when he dropped his gaze to his knees. "Don't know if I'll ever get used to that."

Natasha scoffed audibly, tipping her head to the left. "You'd be surprised how quickly you can adjust."

"Hmm," was his apt response, his chin dipping lower. Perhaps there would be a day that being an Avenger would be second nature to him, but it certainly wouldn't be then, not two weeks after the initial placement trials. What he was sure of, was that he stable (relatively), maintaining, and likely to remain so for awhile. Titles and such did not apply, and so he would not consider them. Instead, he considered the woman beside him. She would be there, too. It was undeniable that they were two functioning adults, with the training and intelligence to care for themselves, but part of him felt something like relief that she would be at his back. And he would be watching hers, too. If his first real mission participation had to happen that way, he could accept it. On that thought, he leaned forward, grazing her lips with a small buss. Teasingly, she drew back a little, and a low growl echoed in his throat as his hand slid up her back to her neck, the cool metal making her shiver. Her mobility was limited, and if she went back any further, she'd be flat on her back. In his mind, that wasn't a bad option, but that could only happen if he could kiss her properly. A tiny grin, and the bare brush of her mouth over his, and suddenly the weight of her body was removed from his grasp, leaving him a little dazed at her escape.

"C'mon, soldier. You can get a preview of what I'll be wearing, at least," she told him, lithely rising from the couch and holding out her hand to him. "There's one good thing to come out of all this."

A dark eyebrow spiked, and his bright eyes glimmered as the corner of his mouth curved.

"I get to see everything? That might be alright." His good mood fully restored, Bucky got up as well, his burning gaze wandering over her form as she led the way to the door. Feigning solemnity, he intoned, "We'll have to check for vulnerabilities, see what can and can't fit under it."

The look she shot over her shoulder smoldered and burned, and he felt a spiral of fire shoot down his stomach. A smirk curled Natasha's lips as she remembered all the times when she had to smuggle weaponry under ball gowns, inside leggings and tights, and she almost laugh aloud.

"Again, I say that you'd be surprised."

 **xXxXxXx**

The flurry surrounding the General Assembly Building of the United Nations' headquarters was overwhelming as the assembled members of both teams made their way to the building. Though the governing bodies and representatives of the participating nations met daily, it was rarely enough to merit the amount of prestige and security that this singular event could. The flight in had been a tranquil journey in comparison to traversing the streets of New York that morning. The closer they all got to the building, the worse the traffic was. The roads were clogged with arriving dignitaries, everyday workers, and honorary representatives trying to get to the great hall. Even though the event itself would be more of a celebratory thing, with an overview of the Avengers' progress and discussions of the actions of the companies involved with their rebuilding efforts, it appeared that it would not be taken lightly. Certainly, the media coverage would not be light, as even passersby had their smartphones out and cameras at the ready, pointing at the parade of shaded cars rolling their way up to the front steps. In the midst of those cars was the Avengers' escort, unmarked and plain black.

Soon enough, the selected team members were on the front steps, the flags of the assembled countries flapping on their poles behind them as they entered. Rhodey was encased in his AF dress blues, insignia and name plaque shining on his jacket. Flanking him was Natasha, her chosen attire a black pantsuit (it allowed for greater mobility than a skirt, she'd pointed out to Bucky the night before, which was about all he heard before they'd moved onto...other things). Bringing up the rear were Barnes and Sam, choosing to dress darkly so as to blend better with the onsite security guards, and shielding themselves with ball caps and sunglasses. Jacques Duquesne, who had been chosen as the third of their private security outfit, sported a deep purple shirt beneath his jacket, setting himself apart and looking a mite smug about it as he adjusted his aviators. The fact that each of them had weapons secreted on them went without saying, as well as body armor (special permission had been obtained prior to the event, and even so they would have to submit to a search upon entering to make sure nothing truly heinous was strapped to them. Prepared as they could be, they all moved indoors, passing the sculpture of the twisted pistol with stony expressions. Faces ducked, cameras flashed, and Bucky held his breath, the erratic thump of his heart mot alleviated upon entry.

To say the place was crowded was an understatement. It appeared that despite the normal office workers having the day off, the building was practically swarming with people. Journalists, representatives, and the navy-suited security detail filtered and mingled around them. Moving as a single entity, the selected Avengers moved through the crowds, Natasha and Rhodey spoken to on and off as they went. The remaining member of their outfit was waiting, and they had to make contact before all were herded into the Assembly Hall.

The prince was already playing his role as a single part of his father's delegation. His acceptance to the roster of the Avengers was not yet public knowledge. That announcement was to be made in the midst of the discussions and proceedings, sometime near the end of the day to avoid too many motions or inquiries being made. Standing tall and smart in a dark suit, his piercing gaze swept across the milling delegates. Spotting them in the crowd, he tilted his head carefully, gesturing for them all to come over. The Black Widow and the colonel led the way, the heels of their shoes clicking as they crossed the tile floor. Behind them, Bucky grouped up with Sam and Jacques, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible (automatically, he tucked his left hand in his pocket, glad he had chosen a long-sleeved shirt as well as a jacket). When they were near, the young man laid a hand on the shoulder of the fellow closest to him, muttering something to him in his native tongue. At once, the man turned, and Barnes noticed the minute stiffness enter Natasha's body. She clearly recognized him, and that made his eyebrow arch. His bight gaze wandered over him, wondering if it was one of those times when his memory was failing him. He came up with nothing. The older man was a few inches shorter than T'Challa, but stocky and built despite his age. His hair and beard were gray, threads of the original dark shade peppering it on and off. Wire-frame glasses circled dark eyes, intelligence shining in them. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, the cut fitting him perfectly. The only aberration of the look was the necklace hanging over his tie, a sharpened tooth bound in strips of leather and matching the one T'Challa owned. The air of coiled placidity permeated his person, and was much stronger than the prince's brand of it.

"Father, this is Natasha Romanoff and Colonel Rhodes," the prince began, gesturing to each teammate in question as he made his introductions. "Jacques Duquesne, Sam Wilson and James Barnes will be responsible for some of the security today. Everyone, may I present King T'Chaka of Wakanda."

The older man looked upon each, a respectful incline of the head his greeting. Almost as one, the group bowed their heads to him, Barnes copying the others a split second after they started. It wasn't often that he greeted foreign dignitaries, and it felt odd.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," he said, his accented voice deep and cultured. Like his son, the words rolled and flowed, compelling the listener to pay attention. Extending a hand, he cupped it in the air before laying it over his chest. 'I wanted to thank you personally for all you've done. Your service is greatly appreciated."

Taken aback by his frank show of gratitude, the selected members of the Avengers looked to one another in askance.

"Thank you, Your Highness," Rhodey replied after a few seconds, taking it upon himself to act as their spokesperson. A little part of him wished Tony had decided to be a representative for the event, if for no other reason than to watch him go toe-to-toe with the king. That would be quite a sight to see. Aloud, he continued, "We should be thanking you, for you advocacy."

While the Avengers had not lost the support of the people in their time as advocated defenders, there were a few officials who had thought there should be a tighter lease applied to their efforts, or at least a committee to oversee the genuineness of their efforts. T'Chaka had been one of their firmest allies in the last several months, having a fairly decent idea of what it was like to represent a small faction and fight for its rights to its own autonomy.

The king's face broke into a slight grin. "It is nothing to support those who seek to do what is right, no matter the cost. I will continue to speak in your favor, although you hardly need it, I think."

Eyes scanned the crowded lobby, to the decorations and the delegates muttering praises for their guests. The gesture was not lost on any of them, least of all Natasha. Brushing back a few strands of her loose hair (straightened and curled back at the ends, her latest adjustment to the fiery mane), she grinned knowingly at the older man.

"Well, you've got more of a reason to do so, right?" she inquired, her gaze flicking to where T'Challa had gone. Another delegate had come up to him, was speaking to him in hushed tones.

"My son's inclusion was never a contingency," T'Chaka stated plainly. However, despite the seriousness of his expression, the briefest shimmer came to his eyes as he glanced over to his heir. "Although, I won't deny it certainly does change things."

Wry smiles were exchanged before T'Challa made his return, palm laying on the king's arm.

"Father, the representative from Spain wishes to speak to you," he said, knowing it was time to extract them all from the situation and continue on with their tasks. Nodding in compliance, the King of Wakanda bowed his head to them all in farewell, moving in the direction of the representative and his entourage trailing behind him. T'Challa nodded once to them all, discreetly tapping at his ear to indicate the comm-link settled within being turned on. At once, the others returned the gesture, systems on and everyone separating to their stations. The swiftest glance passed between the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, the moment suspended in their minds as they went upon different paths for the day.

Steve had provided them with the itinerary the evening before, but the choices of where everyone would be at given times was left up to them. With Rhodey and Natasha providing the public face of the organization, it fell upon the three men in the shadows to determine their places. Due to his extensive experiences of working outside the system and in the darkness, Bucky began to anticipate possible entry points and weaknesses on the floors as they walked. As the minutes passed, he found that Duquesne and Wilson deferred to his judgment more and more often (well, Wilson's deferment included sardonic quips at his expense, but that had been his general experience with the guy, so they both took it in stride). It made sense, in a twisted way; having been under the thumb of manipulators and criminals, he was the one who could easily imagine how they would think.

It was what had him in one of the security rooms with the head technician, Jacques at his side while Wilson went on into the Assembly Hall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he listened as the tech rattled off an explanation about surveillance coverage, the superiority of the U.N.'s systems extolled while he resisted grinding his teeth. The guy seemed to have an aura of untested cockiness about him, despite his relatively young age. It was probably why he was in the darkened room, made to call out to the security officers on duty rather than being among them, the sergeant surmised. For the sake of the others within the hall, he would listen, but not for very long.

"We've got cameras on every entrance and exit for the building, and in the hall surrounding the chamber," the fellow said, a hand gesturing to the bank of screens before him before running through his spiked brown hair. Gray eyes scanned each screen behind square-framed glasses as he typed up a command on the keyboard before him, the cameras swinging in a slow arc. "We've got CNN inside to get some coverage of the opening events, and there are four cameras posted for each cardinal direction in there. Security coverage extends five city blocks in every direction, some in civvies, some not."

Bucky nodded. It all appeared sound to him, and so he would let it be.

"Good," he said aloud, reaching into his pocket. A spare earpiece with comm capabilities came to hand, and he passed it over to the technician. Tapping it, the comm came to life, and the fellow raised an eyebrow before tucking it into his ear. Pulling himself to his full height, Bucky instructed him, "Keep the radio line open, call out everything you see that's out of the ordinary. Even if one camera glitches, I want to know about it."

"Why, you think you can take down video feed issues?" the technician retorted, the sass of his sarcastic smile making Bucky roll his eyes.

"I think you have no idea what some really determined people are capable of, Shane," he replied harshly, tacking on the name belatedly as he spied the tag on his shirt. The technician narrowed his eyes and huffed, turning his attention back onto the screens. Obviously ignored, the ex-assassin darted a glance to his erstwhile teammate. Gesturing for him to occupy the empty seat beside the techy, he muttered, "Jacques, keep an eye on everything, yeah?"

" _Oui,_ Sergeant," the other man agreed, the neutral title dancing across his tongue. Dropping into the seat with ease, he leaned his elbows onto the broad tabletop, gaze riveting onto the cameras' offerings. Deciding it would be best to leave them to it, Bucky resolved to start doing floor sweeps, beginning with the upper balconies. A final admonishment to call if there was trouble was cast over his shoulder, and it was met by a grunt. Well, a grunt and an insult.

"Ass," the technician growled under his breath, not counting on the person in question to hear his jab. However, given that Bucky had good hearing even before Zola's experiments, it was very much heard. Pausing on the threshold, the ex-assassin cleared his throat, waiting until the fellow turned in his chair, his glare pinning him in place.

"There's only one ass around here, and you just proved who it is, kid," he snapped, blue gaze icy as he stared down the younger man. He had to hand it to the guy, he didn't immediately cower before his cold wrath. Still, there was that flicker of fear, the one that told him he understood how closely he was toeing the line. Upon seeing it, Bucky exhaled sharply, exiting the room and proceeding to start his rounds.

" _Merci de me laisser avec le crétin,_ " Jacques grumbled into the comm line, and Bucky pressed the heel of his hand to his head. Sam, for his part, chuckled, having heard all that.

"You should go easy on him, Sergeant," the other man crooned over the line, mock sympathy for the technician in his voice. Barnes pinched the bridge of his nose as he boarded the nearest elevator, taking it up to the top floor.

"Can it, Wilson. How's it looking on your end?"

"I though you told me to shut up." Before Bucky could lose his temper, Sam laughed to himself and continued, "Green, so far. Widow's making contact with T'Challa again, Rhodey on the west end. Crowd's full of all the usual suspects, it seems. Outside control is silent."

"All right," he responded, eyes scanning the nearly empty walkway he was traversing. Content with the code designation, he decided to focus solely on surveillance for the time being. "Call back in twenty, no matter the color, both of you."

"Roger that," Wilson said, the cut of the comm crackling after.

"Will do," the Frenchman stated, all business before the silence. The echoing voices of the attendees several floor below in the open lobby and foyer areas were all that Bucky could hear, save for the whisper-soft patter of his own boots. One floor after another, he went around, noting niches and easy hiding spots that were, thankfully, bereft of anyone else. Virtually alone for his sweep, it was something of a shock when he rounded the corner of the second floor walkway and almost knocked down the person who crossed his path. Springing back, his body automatically reacted, defensive stance taken and a palm wrapping around the hidden holster under his jacket. Shortly, though, he realized the person in front of him had his palms out, a gesture of surrender and complacency. No danger, and so Bucky removed his hand from his weapon.

"Oh, uh, sorry," he said, relaxing his posture minutely as he came out of his stance. Surveying the stranger in front of him, the guy look naturally unassuming. Mousy brown hair was combed to the right, his wire-rimmed glasses were a nondescript silver, his suit bland gray. His eyes, though, were bright, flicking over him with interesting. An itch coursed up Barnes's spine, and his posture stiffened.

"My fault, I assure you," the stranger returned softly, lowering his hands. Almost as an afterthought, he brandished the name tag and pass he'd been issued for entry. Waving them so quickly that Bucky could not pinpoint a name or barcode number, the fellow flicked a few fingers at him and asked, "Security?"

"Mm," was the only confirmation that Bucky would give, shifting his weight onto his back foot. The man seemed to sense his reticence, and did not pursue the matter further.

"Ah. Well, I won't impede you," the stranger assured him, keeping his tone smooth and polite. Sidestepping him, the fellow pattered a few feet beyond him. When his treading paused, Bucky risked a glance back, catching the man casting a pointed look at his hand. His left hand. A grim smirk came to the stranger's lips, and he shook his head before continuing his journey. "Soldier."

"What?" Bucky barked, ice flooding his veins as the fellow kept walking. As he disappeared around the corner, the ex-assassin stood stock still. In this place, he was a nobody, where his name was only given out over the private communication channel. The allusion to his past put him on edge, made him freeze. How did that fellow know that? Guesswork, perhaps, but that was quite a bit of luck and chance to get it correct.

"Barnes, they're moving into the chamber," Sam called over the line, pulling out of the furious race of his thoughts. "Green so far."

Swallowing hard, he glanced back over his shoulder to where the stranger had retreated, though he was long gone by that point. The tightness in his stomach had not dissipated, and so he relayed his concerns.

"I...may have a yellow. Glasses, brown hair, light gray suit," he rattled off the description of the guy. Creeping over to the balcony, he scanned over the crowd as they were ushered into the hall. Spotting him hovering round the edge, the fellow had the audacity to look up, a feral grin and nod thrown at him before he stepped under the overhang of the upper floors and out of sight. "He's in the flow."

"Gotcha. Hear that Nat, Rhodes?"

Affirmatives were fired off from both, the barest quaver of a question in Natasha's tone. However, he was not about to give a response to it, not even as he backed away from the balcony. Bucky's intuition about the day, the awful twist in his gut that refused to vanish, came to the fore of his mind as he tread carefully down the back stairs. They were poised on the edge, and he just knew they were about to fall.

 **xXxXxXx**

As the final representatives filed into the main chamber, the cacophony of voices swirled up and around Natasha, echoing against the high ceiling. She and Colonel Rhodes had been directed towards the front of the hall, a table set for the honorary representatives. The remaining attendees were being corralled to their designated tables, voices bouncing and carrying due to the high ceiling. Hawley came in through one of the side entrances, having been holed up in her office and fielding a final phone call from Nick Fury during the arrivals. An apologetic smile and greeting was given to both of them as she sat, assurances coming from Rhodey that it was not a problem. Wilson's croaked in her ear, wondering how close Hawley had come to missing the event altogether, and how damn lucky she would've been if she had. Risking a glance up, the female Avenger spotted the shadow of her teammate shielding himself behind a pillar and smirked. Damn lucky, indeed. Despite the residual nerves in her stomach (which she would vehemently deny the existence of), thus far the proceedings had gone as per the projected itinerary. Boring introductions, welcomes, faces filtered in and out of her vision, her bright eyes taking note and at the same time seeing nothing at all. It was going to be a long day in that chamber, and she was already anticipating the return back to the base, back to her own bed.

The opening speech was in the midst of being made, the chosen speaker one of the United States representatives. The redheaded woman paid his drawling speech half a mind as she let her gaze roam about the wide room. Glancing over the grand seal, she noted the assembled committee member seated behind the speaker, older men and women from various nations listening with apparent rapt attention. When her eyes flitted over to the crew from Wakanda, she caught the king giving her a discreet wink, delighting in her polite façade and wandering attention. T'Challa's mouth curved at the corner, posture rigid beside his father as the speech continued. The speaker directed his attention to the camera operators briefly, nodding and welcoming everyone once again. It was time, he stated, to proceed to the motions of the day, if there was no other business to attend to first.

An objection rang out from somewhere towards the back of the hall, murmurs rising as the objector came forward down the aisle. The nerves in her gut increased tenfold as the man came forward: brown hair combed over, light gray suit, glasses. Bucky's tone when relaying that information had put her on guard, and now that the fellow was stepping out into the open, it rang ever-sharper in her ears.

"Excuse me, we are not recognizing individual representatives at this time," the speaker called out to the approaching man, intent on halting him. The fellow barely paused in his travels, a quizzical look decorating his features.

"Really?" he intoned, a sardonic slant added to the single word. Shrugging a single shoulder, he stated, "I believe that this would be the best time to recognize one."

"Who is that?" Rhodey asked Hawley out the corner of his mouth, his posture stiff and his brow furrowed in suspicion. Unconsciously, Natasha mirrored him, though one of her eyebrows arched high.

"I don't know," Hawley whispered softly, her light eyes widening in dread. And that was saying something, considering it was part of her duty to interact with every nation associated with the organization. She had connections, knew nearly every person there. Taking in the paling cast of her countenance, Natasha felt her body scoot towards the front of her seat, ready to spring into action if needed.

"That's not good," she exhaled, gaze darting around to the security guards on the floor and dotting the upper balconies. The guards were on their radios, channeling to the others and prepping for take-down, were he to pose a threat. Frankly, she was of the notion that he was a threat; assuming otherwise was madness. As she considered how best to get in between him and the speaker at the podium, the fellow continued to move down the aisle, disdain painted across his features as he came closer.

"Given that this whole event is built on the decimation of the country I represent, I think I should be the only one who deserves to speak at all, sir," he was saying, hints of desolation and rage fluttering in his words. The challenge had been issued, and all that remained was the response.

The speaker's spine stiffened, his face turning red as anger crawled up. "No country had been decimated under the watch of the U.N. or the Avengers."

The fellow in the gray suit shrugged, his shoulders jerking sharply. "I suppose you have to tell yourself that simply to sleep at night."

The flush of red deepened. "Sir, if you don't step down—"

"I won't," the man said, his face like thunder and his voice echoing without him raising it. Lifting his chin, he raised his palm, crossing it over his chest and seemingly dipping into the breast pocket. Forefinger and thumb clenched around something within, and as Natasha was narrowing on exactly what it could be, he growled, "I don't intend to, ever."

Suddenly, around half of the commissioned guards turned on one another, gun shots and punches ringing in the air. Not so much as a look passed between Natasha and Rhodey, the pair of them springing into action immediately. The colonel pushed Hawley beneath the table as pandemonium erupted in the chamber, her safety assured before he sprinted over to the podium. The Black Widow vaulted across the table, running hard to grab at the nearest guard. Wrapping her legs around his torso, she carried herself through to toss him to the floor, launching herself at the next. Fluidly, she passed from one to the next, Rhodey at her back once he'd gotten the speaker and assembled people on the top platform out the back door. Whomever they could get out, they did in the midst of the attack. Assaults rained down on them, met with a few of her stunners and shots from the colonel. When those were exhausted, she fell back on her training, her arms and legs weapons as well. Charging against a behemoth of an opponent, she felt fingers curl into her hair, jerking her back and throwing her into the wall. Dazed for a moment, she screeched and bowed her back as the hands grabbed at her again, trying to gain momentum to swing out her legs and free herself. A thick arm braced itself over her throat, pressing to cut off her air supply. Armored legs pressed against hers, the sheer force and weight pinning her. Her arms came up to grasp the one at her neck, and she gritted her teeth, unable to accept defeat; she could secret as many weapons on her person as she liked, but it would mean nothing if she wasn't alive to use them. Looking up, her eyes widened as she was met with the sinister gaze behind the mask, the skull painted on it fading in the face of the unholy rage directed at her. Beyond him, she could vaguely see Rhodey jogging over, three guards overwhelming him and shoving him down to the ground. The rogue guards began barking orders and forcing delegates to remain where they were as they assumed power of the building, terrified camera operators swinging their mounts around frantically as they did so. The creak of a door met her ear, and Natasha was barely able to spot the newest arrivals, waves of men in black coming in to round up the hostages.

"And neither will they," the man in the gray suit stated, teeth flashing as he stepped up to the podium. The pleasure in his form was unmistakable, and with a single nod directed to her captor, he strode forward, ready to take control of his conquered domain.

 **xXxXxXx**

Chaos had erupted in the halls as Bucky passed. Guards were turning on one another in the lobby, brothers in arms turning to enemies in mere seconds as they began to engage in combat. It was baffling; security officers were not meant to brawl with one another, no matter what the circumstances. Something was wrong, seriously wrong, and the sharpness in his stomach stabbed harder at him as he booked it to the security room. As he descended to the correct floor, he spotted the ring of rogue guards crowding around the door to the room. At once, his mind went blank, the jump of fear burned away by the anticipation of a fight. The Winter Soldier's attack training took over his movements, pushing him through as he grabbed one antagonist by the scruff of his neck and threw him into the far wall. The ring shuffled around him then, one after another coming at him. Tight, controlled jabs and punches were dealt, the limited space accommodating little to no leg attacks. Only when they started to drop did he find the room to incorporate kicks and knees drops into his attacks, feet and fists flying so fast the others had no time to anticipate the movements. Soon enough, he was the last man standing, harsh breath rasping out as he smashed a final jab into his awaiting victim's jaw. Down he dropped, and Bucky took control of himself again.

Through the half-broken door, he could hear the muted grunts and hollers of the occupants within. Stepping up to it, he reared back and snapped his leg out, the last panels of the door falling away under his strength. The Swordsman was still standing, his blade drawn, the collapsible metal structure rigid and ringing true as he parried away his attacker's swinging billy club. The sharpened edges of it and the knife he held cut through the air. Spinning, he managed to get a touch, the cut slicing through the cloth and dull armor on the fellow's arm. A shriek of rage followed, but it ended the minute Jacques drove his knee up into the guard's stomach. Wheezing and choking, the man had a mere second of reprieve before the Avenger lashed out one final time, the butt of the hilt cracking against his skull and dropping him. Inhaling deeply, the Swordsman straightened, pressing the button on the hilt of his sword to collapse it. Glancing over at the broken door, he had the temerity to roll his eyes at Bucky and snort.

"Sure, now you come!" Jacques crowed, sheathing his weapons and leaping over the fallen fellow at his feet. The security room was in shambles, the kid who had been sitting in front of the screens out cold on the ground. Leaning over him, Bucky pressed two fingers to the fellow's neck, the heartbeat telling him that he was merely unconscious. Leaving the others where they were, his icy eyes narrowed in on the Frenchman.

"How'd they get in?" he asked, the tone in his voice dark and wondering all at the same time. Jerking a thumb to the upper left-hand camera screen, Jacques frowned.

"Southeast hall, got up here before I could call the color," he stated, fingers coming up to comb back his skewed hair. Going forward, he stepped lithely over the knocked out technician, tapping harshly at the keyboard and retracting the time on the camera to show Bucky. The replay revealed the barest blip of black obscuring the screen, with the assailants slipping in mere seconds later. It was at that point, the Swordsman relayed, that the cameras were disrupted—most likely by an electromagnetic device or some form of disruptor—to give them the time to get deep into the complex. Grimly, he noted, "Seems that they have an idea of the layout of the building, given how easily they found their way back here."

"Premeditated attack," Barnes breathed, the dread in his stomach growing with every passing second.

" _Oui._ To an extent, I think," Jacques amended, tapping out of the replay mode. Suddenly, the cameras began to blink and sputter, save for the ones point towards the outdoor entrances. Several black-clad bodies stormed into the building, meeting with the turncoat guards in the foyer, and before either man could react, the comms crackled to life.

"Perimeter breach, down 1st Avenue," called in one of the agents outside. Echoing crows and screams filtered in over the line, followed by grunts and the muted sounds of bodies smashing into one another. Huffing breaths coursed in their ears, footsteps pounding the pavement distantly. The agent tapped in, the alarm in his voice rising. "Got what looks to be...dear God, an army sweeping up the street."

" _Nom de nom_ ," Jacques gasped, and Barnes could not respond, could only listen as what sounded like gunfire and screams started to break over the line.

"Repeat, perimeter brea—"

The radio cut off abruptly, the sickening sense of foreboding invading the small room. And then, the chamber cameras all went dark. At once, Bucky and Duquesne sprang away from the table and consoles, rushing out the security room and into the hallway with all speed.

"Sam, Sam!" the ex-assassin hollered into his comm, hand cupped to his ear in desperation. For a moment, only the garbled sound of the line fading in and out screeched in his ear, but soon enough a muffled grunt and harsh whisper shot out.

"Red, red!" Sam hissed, another round of grunts and thumps accompanying the words. "Chamber's under lockdown, can't get out."

A spring of fear and panic bloomed deep inside him, but he would not allow himself to feel it. There was too much that needed to be done, and he would not succumb to it. Too many were in danger, including…

"More red's coming up the street," he replied woodenly, sharing a distressed glance with Jacques. Winding their way out of the back halls, the sunlight burst forth through the windows of the lobby, illuminating the invading bodies coursing through below. The onsite security were making a valiant effort, meeting the onslaught head-on, but it could not last indefinitely. And Bucky's priority ran to the defenseless inside the chamber. Removing one of his commissioned Glocks and the knife he'd secreted in his boot, he swerved sharply away from the balcony of the walkway, Jacques pulling out the hilt of his blade and allowing it to snap out. Quickly, he murmured, "Hold tight, we're going to try and find a way in."

' _Hold on, Natalia,'_ he whispered inwardly, his heart pounding even though he knew full well how capable she was of handling herself. Coming across a set of doors that opened onto the upper balconies, he returned his knife to the boot sheath before rattling the handle. It wouldn't budge; the doors had been sealed since earlier that morning, and the keys were out of reach. There was the option of kicking in the door, right at the join of the handles, but drawing attention was untenable. With a preemptive hand, Jacques stopped Bucky's examination, pulling him out of range. Pressing a button on the side of his hilt, the activated blade seemed to glow, the edges of it rimmed with what appeared to be a thin, purple laser. It was a newly-integrated upgrade, one that he had yet to test, but he could not imagine a better time to do so. Sinking the blade into the wood, the particles surrounding the handles and locks parted from one another like a knife cutting through warm butter. As the last piece gave way, he lunged forward, catching the falling hardware before it could clatter to the floor. Bucky watched all this, fascinated with the sight for a few moments. When the handles were placed gently to one side, he came back to himself, fumbling in his pocket for the device in his pocket. It was an emergency communicator, one of the few distributed to them. Though he had no doubt that Sam had activated his, the colonel and Nat would not have been able to, being so exposed as they were. It wouldn't hurt to trigger his as well.

"Good Lord, Steve, get this fast," he muttered as he thumbed the sensor, the distress signal flowing forth and calling out for aid as Jacques silently opened the door. As one, they crawled through, wondering what hell they would be entering upon in the midst of the chaos.

* * *

 **A/N:** …I'm a little late. I know, I know. Holidays, man. That, and this chapter just did not want to be written. It was kicking my butt so hard. Also, my work schedule(s) were skewed, and ate into the writing time I normally allot for chapters. Excuses, excuses, I know, and I'm sorry for the minor delay. But it's here, now!

Things are liable to get crazier over the next couple of chapters, so hang on for that! Also, I don't think the United Nations has upper balconies inside the Assembly Hall…just take it as creative license, same with the interior layout of the rest of the building.

I only know a few select phrases in French, and so had to use an online translator for the Swordsman's words (if inaccurate, I apologize):  
 _Oui._ —Yes.  
 _Merci de me laisser avec le crétin.—_ Thanks for leaving me with the idiot.  
 _Nom de nom.—_ A slightly more polite version of, "For God's sake." (Roughly. Not the exact translation, but the gist of it.)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Facebook, etc.).

Also, RIP Carrie Fisher. Brokenhearted over losing Princess Leia, among all the others lost this year as well. So sad…

I hope you all had a happy and fun holiday season. Next chapter will be coming in the New Year (so ready to get out of 2016, my goodness).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	25. Chapter 25

A hand shot out, pressing at the hinge of Holly's laptop. Just barely snatching her fingers away, the brunette shot a glare at the offender. She'd been in the middle of typing an email to the publisher, their debate about release dates and meeting at the New York offices ongoing. While it could wait for a few moments, she did not like being interrupted in such a manner. Staring at her husband, any protest that had been on her tongue died when she saw the seriousness of his expression, the jerk of his chin at the television being his only response.

The channel had been tuned to CNN all morning, early speculation about the U.N. summit the background noise to their breakfast and the couple of chores she had started on. Steve would be heading to the base in the afternoon to catch up on proceedings with Hill and Fury, but he'd wanted to keep an eye on the situation in some way. Something, they were discovering, was needed. Returning her focus to the screen for the first time in hours, she was shocked to see the cameras shake, the screams of dismay and surprise echoing in the microphones as the chamber was overrun by men in Kevlar and armor. Violently, the chaos that descended was recorded, a sudden fist appearing and blackening the camera as the lens was punched out, punched through. As the feed switched, it continued to show the horror, the swarm of enemies overtaking Natasha and Rhodey. Over all the madness, a man in a gray suit presided, his hands tucked into his pockets and the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Soon enough, he raised a hand, a cutting motion made across his throat, and then the feed went dead. The fear and shock in the central newsroom was powerful, but it was nothing to the heavy fog surrounding the man and woman watching it all in their living room.

"Oh, my God..." Holly breathed, a hand going over her mouth. Looking at Steve, she saw the dark set of his face, the sharpness in his eyes. At that moment, buzzing and rattling came from the coffee table, the device perched there shaking with extreme intensity. It was a transmitter, an emergency transmitter to alert him of true danger. It had to be activated by one of the team members inside, the distress signal given to get him on the move as they could not lock down the situation themselves. At once, he was on his feet, running up the stairs to fetch the shield. Rocking and scooting off her seat, she shuffled as fast as she could, grabbing up her phone and purse, laptop tucked under her arm as he came back downstairs. One fast glance was sent to her, to the keys she had scooped up, and he frowned. She returned the expression, seeing the argument he was preparing in his mind. If he expected her to be able to simply let him go, with her staying behind to fret in their home, he was about to be sorely mistaken. Arching her eyebrows, she did not give him the chance to voice it, instead heading towards the back door with all haste. He followed behind, taking the keys from her and jumping behind the wheel of the truck. Barely buckling herself in time, the engine roared to life, commands to lock up the property given as they drove away from the house, all speed limit postings duly ignored as they went.

The base itself was practically pulsing as they entered, his hand gripping hers hard as they navigated around scurrying agents and away from the calls and answers. As they moved quickly, Holly spotted a flash of blue hair, Kay raising her hand and saluting her as they passed, no time to spare for any other gestures. Typing in access codes, Steve overrode the system to allow both him and his wife into the back halls. Approaching the locker area, the din of the base had quieted somewhat, replaced with the nervous hum of energy that had descended upon them as they'd left their home.

"Steve!" Maria Hill shouted, hoofing it despite wearing heels. The garage staff had sent her an alert when Captain Rogers had arrived, and she was desperate to catch him on his way in. Exchanging greeting nods with Holly, the older woman barely had time to get her breath back.

"Everyone here?" he asked, striding forward. As her hand was still in his, Holly was pulled alongside him, and Maria flanked him on the other.

"Yes, they're suiting up and getting ready to head out," she reported, nodding ahead to the flurry of activity of his remaining team members. Cupping her hand in the air, Maria went on, "All agents are on standby, and we've got a quinjet waiting."

Steve nodded, his captain's tone taking over as he spoke again. "Good. We leave in fifteen; get the word out to the others, and patch me in if Fury calls before we're in the air."

"On it," Hill said, hooking a thumb's up at him before departing down another hallway. Her assistant was waiting for her at the other end, the two women's discussion cut off as they disappeared. Leading Holly over to a bench, he softened his voice as he asked her to wait there, a kiss pressed to her hair as she sat down. One by one, she watched the others stream out, Wanda casting her a sympathetic glance as she took the Vision's hand and drew him along. The android could not do much but follow, though he did give her a cursory nod as he went by. One of the newest additions, the one called Ant-Man, came up to her directly. He'd wanted to say hello before, but there was hardly any time between training and mission work, and then he didn't want to seem too forward, because he had a tendency to be, but...all in all, he told her exactly that and extended his well wishes for the baby. A clearing throat behind him made him jump, but Scott (as he insisted she call him) recovered decently. Looking over his shoulder at his leader, he smiled wanly and crammed his helmet on, waggling fingers in good-bye before she could wish him luck. Her dark eyes cut back to Steve, the blooms of fear and worry in her stomach rising as he stood there. Armor all in place, shield attached to the electromagnetic strips on the back, all that remained was to put on the helmet, and he would be stoic, steely Captain America in a heartbeat.

"Holly," he said, blue eyes wavering as he approached her, his bundle of clothes handed off to her. He was still Steve, for the moment, still her husband. His thumb unconsciously rubbed the inside of his ring finger, the wedding band sung beneath the gauntlet, and his expression was filled with all that was pooling inside him. Dumping his clothes on the bench, she stepped forward, not wishing to waste more time.

"Just kiss me quick, and be back as soon as you can," she demanded, reaching for him.

"I will," he stated swiftly, half his promise met as he embraced her. Dropping his helmet, he cupped her face, drawing her in hard and fast. Her hands clung to the belt pack at his hips, light tugs pulling him as close as possible to her. A soft swipe at his lower lip, and he opened up to her, the kiss deepening. The urgency of it meant that it was over far too quickly, but both of them understood why it had to be that way. When it ended, their heavy breaths mingled in the air. A glance shot downward, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Lowering himself onto one knee, he braced his hands on either side of her belly, fingers stiff even as she laid her palms over them. He had to do this, had to have at least one talk with his boy before he left. It may have appeared silly, but Steve wasn't about to leave his child wondering what-ifs about him for the rest of his life if something happened. This mission was bigger, more dangerous than the ones that had come before it in the past several months, and if it all went wrong...he just had to do it. Brushing his thumb against the swell, he inhaled shakily.

"Okay, son, you listen here. You be good for your mother while I'm gone, alright?" His ears caught the bare hitch resounding in her throat, the implications beneath his words making her tremble a bit under his grasp. His heart thumped in dread, in pain, but he could not stop himself from saying it. Bending his head, he gave the swell a peck, the reverberation of a kick bouncing against his lips. Message received and heard, he mused quietly. "Just...just be good."

Breathing sharply out his nose, Steve fetched up the helmet he'd let drop to the ground, placing it upon his head firmly and snapping the clasp into place under his chin. Getting back onto his feet, he looked down at Holly, his tongue failing him after his little speech to their unborn boy. Blinking hard, she grabbed his hand, bringing it up to lay on her chest. The faint beat of her heart was beneath his hand, the fingerless gauntlet muting it further, but it was still there. Her own rose up, splaying her palm over the outlined star. For a moment or two, they stood suspended, the world disappearing as they looked upon one another. Carefully, she raised herself up a little, fingers hooking around his harness straps and bringing him down to meet her. A final kiss, and she sighed.

"Go, Captain," she whispered against his lips, the tingle in them remaining even as she gently pushed him back. The farewells were difficult enough as it was, and clinging would not help (not that she had done that before, in his memory). Dipping his chin, his lips pressed to her forehead, hushed I-love-yous passing before he turned, stiffening his spine and resolutely marching down the hall. The shield caught the light as he rounded the corner, the star at the center glinting before he disappeared.

Tucking her hands around the hem of her blouse, Holly did deep breathing exercises, trying her best to keep the tears at bay. Letting him go was getting harder every day, and the hormones certainly did not help matters. She had stood there for several long minutes, the distant rumble of the quinjet taking flight breaking through her calming process. Swiping at her eyes, pushing away the stray drops, she cleared her throat loudly, sniffing hard as she gathered up her things and his clothes. Aloud, she asked JJ for help. Following the directions he provided, she found herself taking the private elevator up to the offices. Proceeding directly past the bank that housed the team's spaces, she went to one of the conferences around the corner, the clear glass walls revealing the single occupant of the room. Sniffing again, she knocked at the door. Attention caught, the woman looked up, nodding for her to come in. Quickly, she crossed the threshold, noting the growing look of question in her gaze.

"Maria," she started, ready to make her case, "I know I can't do much, but if there's anything I can help with..."

The other woman waved her hand, brushing away her speech. There was no need to convince her to allow her to stay. It was something she had heard before, and besides, she already knew Holly's value. Ushering her into the room, she nodded towards the chair to her right. A headset and a few phones were sitting atop the table, the hook-up running in from long cables from the adjoining rooms. Waiting until she was sitting down, her purse and laptop placed on the floor, Maria pointed at the phones, a grimace creasing her lips as the interfaces lit up sporadically.

"Cover these phones, give reassurances where you can," she instructed, her own headset in place as she commanded her own phones. Normally, there was a telecommunications branch in place at the base, but there were a select few who had the direct number to her office. The companies and organizations that had been working with the team since the Battle of Novi Grad would be calling her soon, no doubt, and they would want some form of answer. Tapping an index finger on the table, she asserted, "No firm commitments."

"Okay, same drill as last year," Holly replied, the feeling of similarity and familiarity weighing down upon her. With a light snort, she continued, "Minus kissing butt to get endorsement."

Maria smiled sardonically. "Good thing we already have it."

The younger woman snorted. "Unless this goes sideways."

"Had to say it, huh?"

Holly had the grace to look a little chagrined. Forthrightness sometimes equated to bluntness in her case. She really needed to work on that.

"Sorry."

Roughly three phone calls had passed by the time Hill's assistant came running down the hall, her hair streaming behind her as she burst into the conference room. Instinctively, Holly backed up her chair, palm over her stomach, while Maria jumped up, angling her body defensively. After a second or two, the assistant caught her breath.

"Ms. Hill...CNN reconnected," she told her, stepping into the room and up the television hook-up on the far wall. Maria and Holly shared a look before the older woman nodded.

"Tap in the quinjet; they'll want to see this," she commanded, sitting down just as the screen came to life. Out of impulse, Holly snatched her wrist, the fear inside her forcing its way out. Maria merely patted her fingers, both breathless as they looked on the scene, where friends were captured by enemies.

 **xXxXxXx**

Zemo looked around the chamber, the sweep of his army and Rumlow's mercenaries cornering the diplomats and dignitaries with ease. A select few, along with the two Avengers in the room, had put up a fight, but that had only lasted a few minutes. The building was in his control, the portion of the city locked down for blocks out. There would be no easy entry in or out of the place. Just as he planned, just as he wanted. Rumlow tapped into the earpiece under his mask, muttering under his breath, and then he approached. The Black Widow, who had been in his charge, was given over to another mercenary, a rifle pointed directly at the back of her head and his body positioned in a way that would not allow her to strike. Zemo had to hand it to him: he definitely knew how best to handle his former coworker.

"Jensen's holding outside," Crossbones reported in, a bit superfluously given how they were all tapped into the same comm channel. However, he reckoned it was more for the benefit of their acquaintances. And sure enough, he caught the rapid glance passing between the colonel and the ex-agent. That was what happened when they failed to finish a mission, failed to capture an enemy.

"Good," he replied, eyes flicking around the chamber. Knowing full well that there were more out there, waiting for the chance to strike, he commanded, "Keep a lookout for intruders."

"What should we do with them?" asked one of the underlings, his rifle jerking towards the capture Avengers. The guards behind them were standing at attention, waiting for his orders. It would be so easy to put a bullet in their heads and be done with it. However, they wouldn't learn anything if they did that. Right away.

"Make them watch, of course," Zemo exclaimed, as though it were obvious. He squinted at Rhodes, dark eyes meeting his without hesitation, and let the corner of his mouth curl. "Make them see how helpless the situation really is."

"Why are you doing this?" Romanoff asked, fire in her eyes as she stared up at him. The one he returned was icy, freezing as he cross over to her. Palms planting firmly on his hips, he bent at the waist, his face only inches from hers. He had to give her credit; she didn't flinch at his proximity. Either stubborn or courageous on her part. His bet was stubborn.

"I saw the world crumble and burn around me," he confessed, the weight of a year's misery, heartbreak, and pain behind every word as he spoke. Tipping his head back towards Rumlow, he continued, "So has he, so have others. Because of you."

He jabbed a finger at the colonel, at her, representatives of those who had destroyed everything worth having in his life, for no other reason than because they had. He kept his tone low, but the savagery in his speech was clear.

"It might not be much, but when it's your life, it matters. It's enough," he exhaled, the snarl inside evident. Straightening, he turned to face the chamber, to face the trapped members of the United Nations, and raised his voice to address them. "You put so much faith in the Avengers...let's test that."

Smoothing down his jacket, he looked over to where the terrified camera operators (the ones who were still alive; with some of the mad dash and scampering earlier, some had been unfortunate enough to fall), a finger raised and rolling in a circle. The mercenaries holding the cameramen hostage nudged and threatened them into submission, made them turn on the cameras and reestablish connection. Stepping back up to the podium that had been abandoned, he cleared his throat once before staring directly out. No more modesty, no more hiding in the shadows. It was time.

"This is for Captain America and his sycophantic team," he practically spat, his control resumed after a few seconds. "You have two hours to come here, and stop the madness. Give yourselves over to justice, or we take the city next. And we will kill anyone in our way. Starting here. No quarter given. After that...we will see."

Pausing for effect, he looked down upon the quaking leaders in his thrall, and he smirked darkly.

"This, by the way, is not a bluff. We will start here, and we will start now."

Nodding to a couple of his men, he pointed across the crowd, to the table designated to Wakanda. The guards he'd brought with him had been wounded significantly, though they attempted to keep the sovereign out of the enemy's clutches. A few well-placed punches destroyed their defense, and left the king without protection. T'Chaka was manhandled out of his seat, dark eyes flashing harshly as he was dragged to the front of the room. His son protested, earning him a rifle butt to the shoulder before he was shoved into the aisle as well. The father and son exchanged glances, the older man giving the smallest shake of the head as the younger's eyes lit up with fury. Despite his status as an Avenger, private though it may be, he would listen to his father's unspoken command. Defense could come later, when the situation was not as dire. Brought before the podium, he stood, gaze defiant as he looked upon the odious man in the gray suit. Zemo stared back frankly, unperturbed.

"Your Highness...see what your support has cost you now?" he inquired facetiously. The king had been outspoken in his support for the Avengers for months, yet he could not be touched. Not until now. The thorn in his side would be eliminated, one way or another. Leaning forward slightly, he spoke up again. "You will be our first example, if the Avengers don't cooperate."

T'Chaka said nothing, but continued to look upon him with disgust, his head held high. He had been faced with worse in the jungles of his own country; nothing the stranger threatened him with could make him afraid, and he would not cower before him.

From their perch up in the balcony, the Falcon and the Swordsman looked at one another. Barnes and Duquesne, after breaking in, found Sam hunkered down behind one of the pillars, a few stray thugs littering the ground around him. When the tide turned, the trio had assumed positions to spy on the proceedings. Despite some accidental actions taken within the room, nobody had been outright brought forward for death. Not until then.

"Shit," Wilson muttered, his brown eyes wide. Under his breath, he heard the Frenchman mutter the equivalent in his native tongue. Glancing over to Barnes, he saw the stiffness in his jaw, the resolve in his gaze, and he sucked in a breath. "Barnes, don't—"

"Stay here," the ex-assassin commanded, brooking no argument or refusal. It would be a veritable suicide mission, but he could not allow the stranger to threaten anyone else, to make things worse. Before either Wilson or Jacques could say another word, he launched himself over the edge to the floor below. His left hand dug into the drywall and paneling, gasps ringing through the air as he landed heavily on his feet. Raising his Glock, he began his advance, heedless of the mercenaries filling the chamber. With his distraction, T'Chaka took initiative, his elbow jerking back to collide with the neck of one of his escort. Sharp jabs fired off from his shoulders, the older man as lithe as he had been in younger days. Many of the dignitaries hit the deck as the ex-assassin made his way to the front, springing off tables and catching the throat of one man with his boot before a few shots were popped off. The pair worked in tandem, Barnes trying to get closer to free T'Chaka totally, to free his teammates, his girl. The king was holding his own as some of the mercenaries circled up around him, attempting to bring him down. For his part, the prince mimicked their actions, knocking his own captor down and running to meet them. Bright eyes darted a look at him, and Natasha opened her mouth, sudden shock lacing her irises as she spied something.

The crack of new gunfire startled those still trapped in the chamber, screams of horror echoing in Bucky's ear. Pivoting hard on his heel, he watched, flabbergasted, as the man in the gray suit tossed away the hand gun he'd produced, no doubt having been secreted on his person. Having infiltrated the group of mercenaries with ease, he had merely waited for an opening. On his knees before him was T'Chaka, a hand clutching at his throat and choking breaths coursing out of him. Another scream, and the prince's forward rush was halted, his body frozen and tears beginning to fill his eyes.

"Should've stayed put, Your Highness," the man muttered, an edge of false regret in his voice as he fell to the ground, dead. Looking up, he and the masked mercenary shared a nod, the ringing group rushing out towards Barnes then. Struggling mightily, he refused to be subdued. A kick to his lower back followed by a jab to his temple made stars explode in his vision, and he was grounded. It was enough time for his limbs to be snatched, his weapon forced out of his grip and his body jerked forward. The man blinked at him, and grinned, almost friendly despite the dead body at his feet. "The Asset. I wondered where you were, Soldier."

"That's not my name," Bucky snapped back, trying to twist his way out. That wiped the smile off the fellow's face, at least for a few seconds.

"But it is what you are, isn't it?" was the fast retort. His gaze scanned over the ex-assassin, as though he were looking for something specific on him. Inclining his chin, the man motioned to the masked mercenary. "Hold the chamber, Rumlow."

A tiny inhale, and Bucky's gaze flicked over to Natasha. Her face was stony, her gaze narrowed in on the mercenary. It matched his own expression; he remembered the guy, one of Pierce's underlings. His name had not been discovered until after he'd gone through rehabilitation, after he began to reconnect the pieces of his life. Steve had told him that Rumlow had disappeared, vanished after the helicarrier disaster. Well, now they knew where he'd gone. The mercenary just shrugged a shoulder, but Barnes got the vague sense that he was smirking beneath the mask.

A short command and a pointing finger, and he was pushed towards the side doors. Digging in his heels, he refused to be taken anywhere, refused to give up the fight. A harsh grip twined in his hair, jerking his head back and twisting it painfully. A groan floated out of his mouth, and out the corner of his eye, he watched the gray-suited man tighten his grip.

"Move, or I'll make it harder on your friends," he whispered, the ultimatum issued. As though his feet were leaden, he forced himself to step forward. He would not risk the rest of them due to his own stubborn folly. The sight of Natasha watching him go, the brief softness in her gaze, made his heart shrink. He would go, for now, but he would get back in there, back to her.

 **xXxXxXx**

The feed cut off, and the quinjet was absolutely silent for several long moments. Total shock and disgust hovered in the air around the team members aboard. Wanda's grip on the Vision's hand tightened, red rimming her eyes as what had happened sank in. Scott appeared to be stunned, gaze ricocheting from the screen to his hands as the seconds passed. And the captain, well, he was infuriated, the cold fierceness within him holding him in place as he looked ahead, staring but seeing nothing. The first shot had been fired, so to speak, the first casualty. One of their own had lost someone in the fight now, and was being held as ransom. The message that had been issued was heard loud and clear, echoing in the silence around them until it was almost deafening. Within minutes of the live feed going dead again, Fury called in, the absolute horror of the situation reflected in his eye as he contacted the primary team. They were just outside New York airspace, and they had to get a plan together as swiftly as possible. No more innocent lives should be lost on their account.

"How'd they even get there in the first place? An army can't just materialize out of thin air," Lang pointed out, the logistics of it baffling.

"No doubt they've been building and preparing for months. And given how most of them are unknowns, slipping past security isn't such an impossible idea," Fury theorized, the harsh set of his face almost doubling as he spoke. "For the higher ups, I'm going with bribery, threats, and falsified documents. Generally, that's how it works."

Steve frowned at that, coming back to himself in that moment. "What do we have for support? I know Chapman's team is right behind us, but it would be nice to have some back-up, just in case."

Fury inclined his head. "National Guard is ready to move out, and we've got the evacuation teams on hold, too. From what we understand, they've got the building on lockdown, and own up to ten city blocks in every direction."

"The aggressors?" the captain demanded, wanting names for the bastards who took hostages, who took his friends, and killed at will. The older man nodded on his end.

"Doctor Jensen is one. She's been sighted on the ground, leading the troops with all those stolen weapons from HYDRA, I don't doubt. The masked guy who was onscreen in the upper right, he matches the description of one called Crossbones. Took some digging, but he's been identified as Brock Rumlow." Steve's eyes were wide as saucers when he said that, and Fury just raised an eyebrow. "He's been building up a reputation underground, and now we see the result of that."

"And the third? Who is he?" Wanda inquired, taking note of the captain's twitching jaw and stepping in.

"We've got facial recognition running through the scanner, but..." the director trailed off, knowing the trolling through all the information databases of the world would take some time. Even if a hit came up, it had not been immediate. Suddenly, beeping came in on his mobile handheld. Scanning through it, he tapped at the screen, forwarding the information he'd received to them. On an accompanying screen, the hateful man's face filled it again, followed by scanned documents and reports. "Got a match. Helmut Zemo. Of German and...Sokovian descent. Standard member of gentry, nothing special about him until last year."

Nick read ahead, and he blinked rapidly. Noting the shift in his demeanor, the others stared at him until he looked up again. Understanding, anger, and pity warred in his features, and he swallowed.

"He was there, at Novi Grad. Lost his wife and kids in the attack."

Another silence fell, and Steve cupped a hand over his mouth, scrubbing down his jaw. The others looked on, staring at the picture of the man who threatened so many in such a short time.

"That gives us motive," the Vision uttered plainly, the grip on his hand increasing. Despite his not feeling pain on the same level as humans, his features did contort in a wince as his female companion held on.

"He lost his whole world. And it will cost everyone else theirs, if we don't move fast," Wanda murmured, determination overcoming the sudden spring of guilt in her stomach. If Zemo was of their making, then they would be his undoing.

"Then I suppose it's time to move out, huh?" a new voice crackled over the line. With comms in, they were all connected, and they all looked at each other.

"Tony," Steve said, some of the sourness draining away. Though the general call had sounded, there was no guarantee that Stark would come. Not after everything had happened, not after choosing to stay away for so long because of tragic, horrible mistakes.

"Come on, I didn't get all suited up just for a flyby," the billionaire responded, speaking over the captain's thoughts and a trail of white streaking behind him just outside the cockpit windows. The agents piloting the jet, to their credit, did not let a hint of a reaction show on their face (but they'd jumped, and the team noticed). The quiet that followed was loaded, and soon enough, Tony cleared his throat. "I'm not gonna leave my friends in the lurch over our problems. Let me know what you got, Captain."

Something deep inside Steve felt repaired, for a few seconds, upon hearing those words. It was time, time to get down there and down to business.

"Okay," he responded, tapping at the display screen in the quinjet and summoning a layout of New York City. The battle was at hand, and they had to prepare for it.

 **xXxXxXx**

Crossbones surveyed his temporary charge, his men in place and holding the chamber as he commanded. Well, not him, Zemo, but the point still stood that the men would come and leave on his say-so. Part of him was still deeply uncomfortable with the plan, purely because he still did not understand the merit of it. And it was not a question of his intelligence, but rather whether the end result would be as satisfactory as, say, charging Captain America head-on and ripping his throat out himself. However, capturing an entire assembly of delegates, dignitaries, and a couple of Avengers to boot? That wasn't so bad. That part was alright. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the shift of red, Romanoff squirming in her spot. If she kept that up, he was going to have words with her.

Long, painful words. The corners of his lips twitched. He kind of hoped she would break, just so he could do something about it.

A crackle came over the comms, the channel skirting past him to his underlings.

"Quinjets have been spotted, sir," one of the younger fellows reported, coming up to him. A flicker of interest laced his irises, and he gestured for the kid to continue. "Along with Iron Man. Orders?"

Brock couldn't help himself, and since he was wearing his mask, he didn't. A genuine grin broke out on his lips. For once, he would gladly relay Zemo's orders. Simply because they fell in line with what he truly wanted.

"When they come, attack with extreme prejudice. No quarter, remember, especially if they make to the front gate," he repeated, tapping into the channel and sending out the call to others as well. Tilting his head up, he went on, "And if someone manages to get to Rogers before I do...I want his head. I mean that literally."

Off his signal, he instructed several of his men to go out to the front lines, bolster the defense on the steps and narrowing down his crew significantly. There were still enough of them to deter any hero-wannabe types in the dignitaries, particularly as none of them wished to catch a stray bullet like the king of Wakanda had. Tapping out, he caught the derisive snort the Black Widow did not stifle, as well as the glare she shot at him. Rolling his eyes, he waited for the inevitable verbal response.

"You sick son of a bitch," the redhead spouted, almost as if on cue. Chuckling humorlessly, Rumlow advanced on her, crouching to meet her eye-line.

"Aw, and here I thought you liked me once, Romanoff," the mercenary crooned, taking off his mask in a false show solidarity.

"You enjoy flattering yourself, don't you?" Her gaze skittered over the crosshatch of scars on his face, trailing down his neck, and arched a brow. "God knows you probably can't get anyone to do so, now."

That wiped the smirk from his face.

"Big talk from a damsel in distress."

He heard the crackle of the comm again, but it sounded distant. Wondering if the links Zemo had secured were faulty, he turned his head, missing the brightness invading the redhead's eyes, and the subtle shift of her glance to the balcony.

"Now you know that's not true," Romanoff muttered, suddenly shifting weight onto her back foot and driving her knee into his jaw. Stunned, he fell back swinging his rifle wildly as she careened around her guard, a collapsible wire pooling out the sleeve of her jacket and pressing against his throat. Off her actions, the colonel executed a similar escape, twisting around and driving the flat of his palm up into the nose of his guard. From above, Wilson appeared, a confiscated rifle in hand and firing warning shot. Commanding his men, Rumlow directed fire to be returned, missing the Avenger by the narrowest margin. The prince of Wakanda, coming out of his distress, slid from aisle to aisle, disarming any remaining mercenaries in his path, his teammates meeting his actions stroke for stroke. With distraction of gunfire, the Swordsman finally leaped down from the balcony, rope taken from the flag display secured around his waist as he swung in. Throwing knives flew from his hands, piercing the unlucky few who happened to choose him as a target. Touching boots to the ground, he cut himself free, ducking to avoid the mercenary lurching towards him, the Black Widow's kick pushing him over.

"About time, Duquesne," she breathed, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a run beside her.

The brunet man smirked down at her. "Had to make an entrance. Like a modern-day Errol Flynn, yes?"

"Alright, Captain Blood, don't get cocky," she snapped back. The banter was all well and good, but there was a time and a place for it. That time was not then. That was the time to take back the chamber, and their freedom. Nodding the concentrated troops still standing, she pulled another set of stunner disks from her pocket, grinning as he unsheathed his sword. The blade sprang out, humming as he thumbed a button and brought out the laser edging. "Let's do this"

 **xXxXxXx**

The local news affiliates were unable to get too close to the action, but from what they could record and send back to the stations, it was a bloody fight. Sightings of two quinjets were reported, and suddenly it was a mad dash for the ground crews to get over as close to First Avenue as possible. The Avengers, all of them, had come, ready to not surrender, but to fight and free those captured in the U.N. hall. As promised, the renegade army were in engaging the Avengers on the street as they attacked, the distant pops of gunfire and shouts caught by the microphones of the crews, shaky cam footage following as they retreated from the danger as needed. Some were speculating as to whether or not the team should have simply given over to the demands, or whether the current course of action was correct. With the National Guard also on the scene, it was tough to say, and even more difficult to predict.

Alone in the Tower since Stark's abrupt departure, Peter stared at the screen, the images of the fight fluttering before him as he sat in the laboratory. His posture was rigid, his face blank. He had been given strict instructions to stay put, Tony telling him to keep an eye out on the lab and keep his phone on him in case of any emergencies. Obeying his wishes, a small part of the teenager could not help but feel frustrated. What right had he to just tell him to stay back, stay behind. What right did Peter have to remaining in safety when so many others were not? There wasn't much he could be sure of in his short life, but that what he was doing—watching the news, biting his nails—was wrong. Chewing his lip, he considered the screen, watching Iron Man as he tore through the sky, landing hard on a set of mercenaries and repulsor beams shooting out of his gauntlets. Suddenly, Captain America appeared beside him, the beams switching to bounce off the shield and tear through the ring of enemies surrounding them. Scarlet auras were followed by mists of blue and white, a yellow streak tearing up behind them as they went. A guy with the British flag on his mask jumped in and out of frame, followed by a young woman with billy clubs and an attitude. The others, too, Emily and Scott were in the mix, fighting the good fight. Thus far, they were doing alright, but how long could that remain the truth?

Parker's phone beeped in his pocket, alerting him to the missed call that had just come through. Pulling it up, he stared at the name and number attached to the notification. True to his agreement with the captain and the others, he had told his aunt everything that had happened to him in the last six months. After the initial shock wore off, she had confessed to knowing something was going on; too many suspicious disappearances from the house, the innumerable, unexplained injuries to his person, and the fact that he could lie just about as well as one would expect a fifteen-year-old to (which is to say, not well at all). The first few days were the hardest, with her watching over him even more closely than before, but within a week, she was beginning to understand. To understand why he was choosing to use his gifts in the way that he was, in honor of the man she'd loved so dearly. And for the honor of others. However, it still didn't mean things were sailing smoothly in the house—she had quite a few words to say about Tony Stark, after finding out the level of deception they'd gone to—but it was closer to normal now than before. Knowing the truth, knowing that she still stood by him, had been more of a help than he'd realized.

At the moment, though, the help looked more like a hindrance, as he opened up the voice-mail app on his phone and dialed through.

"Peter Benjamin Parker, when you get this, come home. If you've heard what's going on already, don't do what I think you'll try to do," May had said, the sternness in her voice doing nothing to hide the fear underneath. He almost smiled to himself; she was one step ahead of him, as always, when it came to him and his nature. Drawing in a sharp breath, she begged, "Please, come home...I'll be waiting for you. Love you."

As the message clicked off, and the electronic voice requested his next action, he tapped the end call button. He dearly loved his aunt, wanted to respect her wishes, but...he cast his gaze over to the far wall, where the secreted number pad was stationed beneath an old Mercedes poster. To the locker within, the newest iteration of his suit waiting inside. As yet, the new additions had been untested, but he figured now would be as good a time as any.

"Sorry, May," Peter muttered, tucking the phone away and striding over to the wall, fresh purpose in mind. He had to do it, had to go, and nothing would stop him. It was the right thing to do, he told himself as he started pulling on the suit, preparing to enter the fray.

 **xXxXxXx**

The empty office Bucky was taken to was cramped, made even more so when the guards filled the room around him. Being held in place, kneeling on the floor, he was forced to wait as the man consulted something on his phone, declaring he would be in within a few minutes. A hand was braced at the back of his neck, thick and steely, threatening to snap it if he made any wrong moves. Frustration and fury were poised to boil over in his mind. He had gone with to ensure that no one else would be harmed due to his actions. So that Natasha would be safe...but it didn't do them any good to have him holed up somewhere, unable to come up with a new strategy. Well, one beyond killing every miserable person who got between him and those he cared about, but that was the default. Bucky shifted to the left, trying to assess his surroundings, but the guards jerked hard, keeping him in place. Murderous intent laced his irises as he stared at the floor, his metal fingers clicking as they curled into a fist.

The door opened, and his newest captor strode in, his gait fluid. When the panels shut them off from the outside (from the two hired mercenaries stationed there), the man let his gaze slide over him, not rushing in the slightest.

"The Asset...HYDRA's true pride and joy," he murmured, stepping closer. Barnes bristled, both at the statement and the fellow's proximity. If only he had the room and wherewithal to punch the guy in the nose...in any case, he did not reply, just clenched his teeth and glared. Scoffing aloud, the fellow removed his jacket, hanging it on the door handle before unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. The scenario was one that Bucky was familiar with; he'd been held down like this before, been forced to endure a form of punishment while his captors attempted to be casual and calm prior to the event. A sick feeling tore through him, but he did not acknowledge it. For his part, the man merely canted his head. "Rumlow had a few stories to share about you. Have to say, they don't quite match the reality."

Bucky snorted derisively. "Maybe because I'm not that guy?"

The man glanced up at the ceiling, considering the point. When he looked down at him again, he swiped at the mousy brown locks that had fallen out of the comb-over, smirking all the while.

"In ideology, no. You never have been. But then again, they were never interested in that part of you. Just in that you could do as you were told, and to kill whomever they told you to kill."

The emotionless, heartless summation of his time spent with HYDRA wore down his patience, but there was little Bucky could do. Too much was at stake, and he could not throw his chances now away. Whatever those chances were.

"But now it's a choice, rather than a forced decision. You fight for the 'right' side, and do so happily," the fellow continued, gaze darkening as he stared at him longer. Deep-seated rage and skepticism flickered in the irises, the most that he would probably allow him to see. Bucky's brow quirked. Who was this man? What had been done to him to make him like that? "I had wondered if you would be redeemable. Too much time has passed for that, too many things for you to want to abandon your cause willingly. Especially after the mess with Klaue."

It all clicked, then. This was the man the arms dealer had warned him about, had told him would be coming after him. And he had willingly handed himself over to the guy. The flash of his irises, the flash of recognition, was spotted by the man, but he did no more than smile at him. The bitter, twisted expression did nothing but make Bucky want to smack it off of him, and that time, he physically jerked forward. The grips around his wrists tightened, and the hand at the back of his neck was removed only to smash into his face. It was hard enough to bruise, and he would be feeling it for the next few hours. Warily, he watched as the man fiddled with something in his pocket, a smartphone drawn out after a moment or two.

"What are you doing?" he asked, eyeing the phone with suspicion. The smile his captor sported vanished, and he squared his stance.

"What needs to be done, Asset. Whatever it takes to make you pliable again. If the Avengers were foolish enough to take you in, then they deserve to be taken out by you as well," the man retorted coldly, staring at the screen of his device for another few seconds. The list sat before him, handed over as promised with the proper word pronunciations. Clearing his throat, he continued in a low, smooth tone, " _Zhelaniye...rzhavet_..."

At once, Bucky's spine stiffened, horror and dread washing through him. Fractured though his memories were, he recognized the significance of those words, spoken in that order. His shoulders shook, and his blue eyes clouded over in a haze. The process hovered, creeping at the edge of his mind, and he fought back against it with all his might. Was that all he was ever to be, a stolen good warped into a killing machine? Was he made for nothing more than missions and compliance, to perpetuate the evil of the world? His body and brain screamed, hollers and shouts deafening him internally as he begged for release. And beneath that, he could hear the mellow alto, tell him to keep wanting, to keep fighting. It shifted to the baritone, promising to be with him until the end of the line, no matter what happened. Others, too, saying he was more, he was better than what he'd been forced to become, had made himself better, pushed to the fore, drowning out the remainder of the fellow's words.

The Winter Soldier was no more, and it was past time to show how far gone he was.

When he was finished, Bucky stilled, his shoulders slackening, and with the flick of a few fingers, the gray-suited man had him released. Falling forward, Barnes braced his hands on the floor, keeping his face calm and his gaze lowered. Subtle shifts and shuffles of boots told him the guards were relaxing, thinking him submissive and safe. His captor, putting his phone away, came forward and squatted in front of him, his icy stare boring into him as he remained motionless.

"Soldier?" he muttered, summoning him out of his haze.

The bright blue gaze flew up, riveting to him. The other man's smug satisfaction bled away as he could see the clearness within them, the burning rage that was building up inside. When the gaze narrowed on him, and the corner of his mouth barely curled, Gray Suit leaped away, backing up just in time for Barnes to growl and shoot up onto his feet. Legs and arms flew out, punches and jabs landed to heads, necks, torsos. One by one, the guards fell, no matter that they tried to swarm the ex-assassin and overpower him. When he was allowed freedom, he exercised it fully. Registering the gross miscalculation he'd made, the man in the gray suit darted to the door, summoning those posted outside to come with him. He'd only made it a few feet when he heard the rapid advance behind him, heard the grunts of his hired hands as they fell one after another. Keeping his fast pace, his fingers had closed around the handle to the door leading out to the main lobby when metal closed around the back of his neck. Thrown backward, he landed on the floor, pain firing up his side as he fell. A punch to the gut as he tried to get to his feet, another to his shoulder, and then hands curled into his shirt, forcing him onto his knees. Forcing himself to focus, he witnessed the enraged visage of the man he'd tried to manipulate...and laughed. The soldier's brow furrowed, confusion decorating his face.

"Do it, Soldier. Prove how far you haven't strayed," he egged him on, arching an eyebrow and daring him to follow through. To beat him into submission, to show how he had not truly changed. Fists clenched in his shirt, pulling him sharply forward. The clarity in the blue eyes of the man who was once an asset sent a shudder down his spine, and his own eyes widened.

"My name is Bucky Barnes. And that's not me," he grumbled, fist cocking and connecting squarely with his opponent's temple. Immediately, the man crumpled, collapsing atop his broken glasses and sprawling over the carpet. Gasping heavily, the churn of Bucky's mind did not prevent him from immobilizing him. Reaching into one of his pockets, he removed the zip ties for fast detainment, securing the man's wrists and ankles, then connect both to keep him in place for later pick-up. Patting him down, he took the guy's phone, the remains of his pockets turned out and emptied. Straightening, Bucky pivoted sharply, running down the corridors and picking his way back to the main chamber. He had to get back, had to start getting the others free..had to do something to make up for the losses already accrued that day.

"Anybody copy?" a voice finally crackled over the link in his ear. A bubble of relief swelled in his chest when he realized it was Steve. Finally, some word from the outside! "Wilson, Romanoff, can you copy? We are on our way, repeat: we are coming to you. Anyone on comms?"

Leaping over a fallen balustrade, Bucky cupped a hand over his ear as thankfulness ripped through him. It was about damn time.

"Barnes here. I copy. Meet you here, Captain."

* * *

 **A/N:** Action sequences still continue to kick my butt, y'all. But, I am excited to write these, so it all evens out!

The opening battles commence, and the showdown between good and evil (or morally ambiguous, depending on who you're talking about) is underway. More is still to come, guys, so hang tight for that.

And yes, I included the trigger words concept here, but instead of just succumbing to them, Bucky fully fights back. Granted, I have no understanding of the breakdown that had to happen to make sure those words worked, but in this version, Bucky is already so far beyond the grasp of his captors to the point that he can actually fight back. He still feels the pull, but he doesn't give up. It was one of the points of the movie that kinda pissed me off, just because of course it was another thing to keep him submissive and "evil", but for the love of all that's holy, I want the guy to have a freaking chance, okay? Disbelief, suspension, all that...and to answer any potential question about it: Zemo got the list from Rumlow, due to his previous involvement with both HYDRA and the asset. He worked with him, makes sense he would have to know how to make him compliant, right?

Don't speak Russian, therefore used an online translator for the two mentioned trigger words. They are as follows:  
" _Zhelaniye...rzhavet_."—Longing...rusted.

Almost late again, but it is out on a Tuesday! Trying to get back into the regular swing of things...Happy 2017, everyone.

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, CNN, _Captain Blood_ , etc.)


	26. Chapter 26

Not far behind Bucky's answer, Steve could hear another rap and thump, indicative of one of the others coming back on the line. Inwardly, he was tapping his foot, waiting for the word as he outwardly drove his fist into the face of one of the hired soldiers. The National Guard operatives moved in behind him, sweeping through the battalions in black and driving them further up the block. The United Nations buildings were in sharp detail now, plumes of smoke and the rattle of gunfire ringing it.

"Cap, Cap! This is Romanoff!" Natasha crowed, and a flush of relief went through him upon hearing her voice. She was still alive, at least. "We've got a lot of trapped civilians inside the main chamber, and some in the underground levels."

"Rescue and evac is coming in hot behind us, just sit tight," he grunted, elbow plowing into an an enemy as he took another few steps forward. It seemed as though every step he took towards the Assembly Hall, there were five or six more soldiers ready to fight in the place of their fallen comrades. Rescue would not be simple, despite his own assurances.

"You sit tight," the redhead barked back, understanding the situation outside better than he'd thought she would. "I got a dirty, nasty bastard with a skull face to find and deal with here."

Off the description, Rogers could only assume she was speaking of Rumlow. Gritting his teeth, he mentally reviewed possible plans as he executed an aerial kick, his shield coming down as he landed on top of a mercenary. Chapman's team was already hard at work dispatching the outer defenses, but his own team was scattered around. Better that they were put to separate tasks, and then meet up later. The data that had been sent to them in the quinjet resurfaced. The blueprints of the building itself flitted through his brain; they had revealed that nearly forty years ago, an extension of the nearest subway line was meant to run under the building itself. Though it had been carved out and some pieces of track had been laid down, it had never been completed. Currently only a thick wall separated the lowest halls from the abandoned project.

"Rhodey, Wilson, are you still there?" Waiting for affirmatives from both, he cleared his throat and started laying out the plan. "Start to round up the members, move them down to the abandoned subway track underground. Vision, I want you to go down and cut through to the lower halls, with Quicksilver and Scarlet Witch helping ferry people out. T'Challa is in charge of their general safety, as well as any security left onsite."

Even with the underground escape, the nearest station was still well in the territory of the renegade army. The prince would be capable of getting the others out, away from the danger, if they took them in intervals. Understanding this, confirmations of acceptance reached his ears, a blur of white and blue streaking by with a dot of red in his arms. Violet and gold cut a swatch through the sky, cottoning onto the idea and descending swiftly into the subway systems.

"Jacques, Bucky, we're approaching the front steps," Steve went on, reflecting a spray of gunfire with his shield. Tilting it just so, the volleys were thrown back at the assailants, screams and cries ripping through the air as the attacking soldiers were hit. Rising from his crouch, he glanced over at Ant-Man, the fellow suddenly morphing back into his typical size to drive his knee into the crotch of one soldier. Unable to stifle the wince in sympathy (it had to be done, but it still was a dirty trick to deal any man), he shook his head and issued his command. "Either put the mercenaries in their places or start driving them out. And Romanoff?"

There he paused, taking a moment to catch his breath before speaking again.

"Do what you gotta do."

He could practically hear the smirk in her tone as she answered him. "On it."

Tipping his chin to the sky, he witnessed the trails following Iron Man as he circled in the air, the shudder and grind as he landed bodily on some of their foes.

"Forward," he said, he and Lang moving in tandem along the street, running and meet adversaries as they went. The National Guard's command were directly behind them, the war zone of the city slowly becoming theirs with each passing minute. It took some doing, but soon enough they were within sight of the front doors, the flags of each nation represented still snapping in the breeze (the ones that were still on upright poles, at least). A flood of mercenaries were streaming out the doors towards them, and he braced himself for another forward assault. However, even as he was blocking and slamming his shield as he went, he noticed a pack of them had broken off to the right, pulled up short by something he could not spot directly. While he could not spot it, though, Tony definitely could.

"Is that...oh, no," Stark breathed, and Steve looked over in time to watch a red and blue blur swing between overhangs. Webbing shot from his wrists, balling up around the hands of the mercenaries before he dragged them to the ground. Landing solidly, he tied them off around a couple of the flag poles, swinging deftly between them to avoid the shots now directed at him. More webbing, this time over the eyes of his enemies, and he left them screaming in horror and disgust before literally falling onto them. His punches and jabs were still a little sloppy, but soon enough the concentrated force was out cold on the ground.

"Holy crap," Lang exclaimed, eyes large behind the red glass of his helmet. Steve merely shot him a look, but he inwardly concurred as the kid did a twist and spin, his webbing catching on a pillar and launching him away from the fallen enemies. Fluidly, he landed on the concrete wall, crouching and directing a wave over at the Avengers near him.

"Hey, just your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man dropping in to drop some bad guys!" he announced, false cheer in his voice as they stepped closer to him. The zoom and screech of repulsors zinged through the air, plowing into the chests and guts of several of the soldiers still standing, the settings lowered enough to merely stun them. Touching down to the ground, he joined the other two men, all of them slinking closer and out of range of any assailants nearby. They needed to regroup and discuss, and it needed to be done quickly.

"First part worked. Might want to lose the second part, or at least get rid of the ending," the tech genius declared, his tinny voice reflecting no small amount of concern. "So much for the staying-out-of-it edict, huh?"

Though it was impossible to tell with the mask on, the captain had no doubt that the teen was sporting a less-than-deferential expression.

"With all due respect, Mr. Stark, you're not the boss of me."

That earned him a sharp chuckle. "You quitting, kiddo?"

"Self-promoting, more like," he mumbled, dipping his chin briefly before looking in the captain's direction. "And I did wait for you guys to move in first, so I technically didn't break any rules."

The captain blew a sigh out his nose, his expression stony. Peter being there was about the last thing he wanted, purely for the kid's safety. It was a literal war zone, and while Parker did have some training, it was limited.

"Pa...Spider-Man," Steve corrected himself swiftly; it wouldn't do them any favors if they gave the game away regarding his identity at that moment. Particularly if the fight went sideways. Gesturing with his shield arm, he remarked in a deadly serious tone. "You shouldn't be here. This is dangerous."

Stiffening briefly, the kid hopped off the concrete wall, landing at his feet. Meeting his gaze directly—or as directly as he could, given that the older man couldn't really see his eyes through the white lenses of the mask—Peter drew himself to his full height. The unyielding posture and determination of his stance nearly threw the captain for a loop, the familiarity so poignant in those few seconds.

"I know that, sir. But just because it's dangerous doesn't mean I shouldn't do what I can," Parker stated simply, as though offering to defend others at the risk of his own life was nothing. And perhaps it was, to him. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, his courage drawn upon as he pointed out, "It's what I need to do. You can't stop me from doing this."

At the petulant-sounding stinger, Rogers smirked humorlessly.

"I could by knocking you out."

A snort shot out of the kid before he could stop it. "No offense, Captain, but I'd like to see you try."

The silent stand-off between them lasted for several long seconds, the crack and crunch of volleys and rebuttals pervading the air around them. Exhaling sharply, the captain looked to his nearby companions, both of them shrugging and leaving the decision to him. Wary blue eyes darted away back to the battle around them, and his lips thinned.

"You're already here...it'd be too difficult trying to get you out now," he mused, almost to himself. Unfavorable conditions as they were, they would have to make the best of them, coupled with the teenager's headstrong decision to join the fight. Squaring his shoulders, he jabbed a forefinger in the kid's direction, his tone brooking no refusal. "Stick close to Stark and Lang, and you will do what I say, when I say it, got it?"

Bleakly, the teen looked to Tony in mute appeal, but even the billionaire was not about to buck the command. Not when his safety was now in question, along with everything else.

"Sorry, them's the breaks," he murmured, faux lamentations falling from his lips. Tipping his helmeted head towards Rogers, he spouted, "When you're out here, it's captain's orders. He might be a pain in the ass, but he knows what's going on."

Resigning himself to his fate, Peter nodded once, tapping at the side of his head to connect the earpiece within his suit to their communication line.

"Got it," he intoned, unwilling to push his luck in that regard. He was allowed to stay, allowed to help. He was not going to squander the opportunity to do so over rules and regulations. Steve waited until he nodded once more in confirmation and understanding before doing so himself.

"Alright, back to work, fellas," the captain said, his gaze ricocheting past the kid to the battle beyond. With that, the captain darted ahead, vaulting over the stand of a broken statue to launch himself into an oncoming group of soldiers. The remaining three jogged behind him, preparing to do the same.

"Okay, bug buddies, play nice for a bit," Stark said, reaching out and slapping both Lang and Parker's shoulders. "I'm gonna get a little higher, do some call-outs if I see 'em."

The boosters in his boots fired, and Iron Man rose up, leaving them in the dust. Scott spiked an eyebrow, though it could not be seen clearly.

"Actually, arachnids and insects aren't—" he started, a gloved hand waving to cut him off.

"Just let it go, dude," Peter replied dully. Scanning the field, the actively moving bodies still littered it. There was a lot of work still to be done, and they needed to get to it. With a small gesture, he allowed the Ant-Man to lead the way back into the fray, doing as the captain had commanded.

 **xXxXxXx**

Responding to orders, Sam assisted in the evacuation of the United Nations members after their liberation from the posted mercenary guards. After the counterattack Natasha and the others had come up with on the fly, Rumlow had retreated with his men, focusing on bottle-necking the people inside in case they tried to escape through the doors. However, that had failed the moment a beam cut through the back wall, rendering the locked doors useless as the Vision stepped in beneath the giant seal. A blue and white blur rushed past him, Pietro Maximoff directing a few tables at a time to get up and follow him out. The next group was encumbered by the red auras of Wanda, her scarlet eyes searching out T'Challa and her calm voice telling him he was to be in charge of getting the refugees to safety once in the subway system. Nodding woodenly, the prince did as he was told, a long stare spared for his father's body before he reached and hoisted it off the ground. Looping the slack arms over his shoulders, Sam could see that it took everything in the young man's power to not sob as he chose to step through, his commands to the next group to follow heeded implicitly.

It seemed to take hours, escorting the groups down the hastily cut path and through the lower levels to safety, but Wilson and Rhodes had confiscated weapons in hand, and the United Nations members not rendered mute were smart enough to keep their movements quick and quiet. Back and forth, back and forth they moved, the chamber emptying as the minute hand wound around the clock. The empty train tunnel reflected the sounds of the pattering feet, the glow of light from cellphones and smartphones bouncing along the ground as they were directed to follow it down to the nearest station. The National Guard and other Avengers would be there to help them on their way. Beyond the chamber, though, the stirrings had ceased, something that Sam did not like one bit. A few hushed words passed between him and Rhodey, telling the older man that he would sneak out to see what was going on. With Natasha having long since run after Rumlow, both of them disappearing in the fray, and Barnes and Jacques who knew where, it was up to him to check it out. Cautiously, he tried one of the side doors first, the squeal of its hinges making him cringe as it opened.

The halls were deserted, at least the lower levels were. No doubt the remaining mercenaries were called out to join the battle with their fellow hired soldiers. They had to be counting on the U.N. representatives to be too frightened and too stupid to take the opportunity to liberate themselves; that seemed to be the only logical explanation for it, but he kept his stance curled, the rifle in hand clenched as he edged his way slowly through the corridors up to the back stairwell. It would take time, checking out each floor, and he groaned under his breath.

"Could really go for my wings right about now," he muttered to himself, noting the light feel of his gun and knowing his ammo supply was low. If he had his wings, his spring-loaded guns would be at his disposal, fully-loaded and ready to pierce his enemies. However, those thoughts were halted as he rounded a corner and barely avoided the butt end of a rifle coming at his head. Dropping to his knees, his eyes widened as Rumlow's weapon fell from his fingers, his back foot planting on the wall behind him for leverage. The pair was alone on the floor; the other mercenaries must have been sent on to perform other tasks, but that was hardly something to complain about at the moment.

Currently, Sam was just concentrating on how best to avoid getting clocked by the guy.

"You're not going anywhere," the older man growled, using the wall to propel him forward, a leg extended to kick him in the head.

"Damn it," he spat, rolling on the floor and narrowly avoiding the kick. Pushing himself up and flinging his useless gun away, he adopted a defensive stance, his knees bent and fists up as Rumlow recovered. Doing the same, the scarred man started to circle, a deranged smile pasted onto his mouth.

"Round two, two years in the making," he murmured, the rough grumble of his voice bringing back some very unpleasant memories for Wilson. He could only hope that this building wouldn't collapse under him that time. Rolling his eyes, he focused, refusing to be distracted. The mercenary was a walking arsenal, with a bandoleer and cartridges still strung up around him, guns on his hips and knives everywhere else in between. He did not know if it was overconfidence in his hand-to-hand combat skills, or if he would rather bloody up the Avenger the old-fashioned way, that stayed his hand, but Sam knew that he could not be allowed to change his mind. He had to get those weapons off him first, and then take him down.

At least he'd already dropped the rifle, he mumbled inwardly. The belt would be trickier, and the bandoleer, but if he could get one knife...

"Good to see you haven't been obsessing about it or anything," he replied aloud, dodging as the mercenary let a fist fly.

Rumlow's expression morphed, the hidden fury cutting across the scars. "You going to accept your punishment?"

"Just as soon as you shut your mouth," Sam mockingly promised. "So that's never gonna happen."

That was enough to get the older man to step up, step closer, a right hook firing off from his shoulder. Blocking it with his forearm, Wilson retaliated, hand snapping out and plucking at the handle of a knife momentarily. It took some doing, a long bout of rotation, kicks, and punches, with Rumlow cottoning onto his plan as they moved. More remarks and biting comments were passed, the scarred fellow just as much a talker as he was back during the helicarrier disaster (pissing off Sam to no end). However, he could not prevent the deft clench of the Falcon's fingers, the single knife manipulated on each pass. The bandoleer fell to the ground, kicked away before the mercenary could retrieve it. Next went the gun holsters, though it took more time and allowing Rumlow to get him in a headlock before those fell away. He made sure to keep himself positioned between the weaponry and the man, leaving minor nicks and cuts on his arms and legs as distractions. Rumlow paid him back in full, with hard hits on his chest and back, forgetting the lost equipment in minutes as his hatred for the fellow crested inside him.

"Waited for so long, and for what?" he mumbled between swings, the jabs and hooks flying as his rage increased. "Being pinned in between politicians and rules and patience...this is too long in coming."

The knife was knocked from his hand, and Sam watched as Rumlow began to palm the remaining one on his belt, when a new voice rent through the air.

"Wilson!" Both adversaries turned at the shout, and Sam could barely repress the smirk climbing onto his lips. Bucky rushed Rumlow from behind, planting his foot solidly on the banister of the balcony and pushing himself into the air. His metal fist came down to crack him hard in the jaw, the mercenary stumbling back from the force of it. Working together, the two Avengers traded off attacks, driving the mercenary away from the stairwell and back towards the wall-length pane of glass at the end. Rumlow, too occupied with fending them off, stepped further and further back, holding his own as best he could. In fact, he did manage to get his hands around Wilson's throat for a moment or two, before two sharp chops at his shoulder and side made him let go. A couple of feet stood between him and the window, and with a final glance to Sam, Barnes took advantage of the opportunity.

With a well-aimed kick to the gut, Rumlow was launched backward, straight through the plate glass window behind him. Following his trajectory, the two remaining men rushed over to the pane, looking down to see the mercenary land squarely in the decorative shrubberies in the garden below. For a moment, his face contorted in ill-concealed pain before his head lolled back, out cold in moments. Considering that it took a lot to fell him, they had to conclude that his head had impacted hard on the ground when he landed, compacting atop the other injuries he'd sustained thus far. Wilson and Barnes shared a glance, the blue-eyed man snorting as the other huffed out a breath.

"God, he really needed to stuff a sock in it," Bucky grumbled, walking away from the window and shaking his head. Bending, he began to scoop up the weaponry left on the floor, securing the appropriate cartridges and long-range rifle for himself. The gun, the bandoleer, and the stunner devices he handed off to Wilson, who accepted them with aplomb.

"You heard all of that?"

"I heard enough."

"Then you know you did the next best thing," Sam retorted, tipping his chin back to the frame and broken glass. Securing the goods taken from Rumlow on his person, he caught Bucky's gaze, single nod sufficing as his thank-you. The other man returned it, before striding ahead.

"Come on," Barnes commanded smoothly, Wilson drawn into match his pace as the two ran across the floor, eager to finish the battle.

 **xXxXxXx**

Natasha Romanoff stepped warily around a flaming police cruiser, the vehicle overturned and on the fringes of a hastily-built shelter. Within was, supposedly, Johanna Jensen: doctor, engineer, and third head of the renegade army tearing up a portion of New York City. As her lead on Rumlow had turned into a dead end (almost literally, given that she had been caught by a couple of guards and shoved back into the wall at the end of a lower hallway), she chose to make her way out of the Assembly Hall, dedicated to using her skills to aid those outside. Alongside her counterparts, she was able to maintain the fight, closing in on a section of street that had been impregnable since the start. A seeming fortress made out of the parked cars had been constructed, a wide circle concentrated on the center of the street with openings between the wedged vehicles allowing snipers to go to their work. The soldiers and mercenaries at the doctor's command were well-trained, and well-equipped; given her experience in Sudan the previous year, Natasha would have been remiss to not notice the other woman's mark left on the weapons they carried. None of them had the power and energy of the ones made by the manipulations of Loki's staff, but she had engineered better bullets, lighter rifles, and thicker armor for her men. She was determined to win the fight, even if she had to do it in a shelter.

Well, Natasha was not about to have that. Utilizing the flickers of flaming cars and their shadows, she crept up upon the fortress, her pantsuit long since scuffed and dirtied. A ceasefire happened every few minutes, giving the soldiers with time to reload, she supposed, and she knew that would be the best time to strike. Not with the whole of the National Guard behind her, no; that would only frighten the hired soldiers and force them to act quicker. But that did not mean she did not have a plan. Carefully, she waggled her fingers forward, signal given as she hooked her hands into holds and started to climb up. Nearly silent footsteps and boot treads had met her ears, barely discernible beneath Jensen's screaming.

The woman was irate, as her contact inside the Assembly Hall had been lost. Neither Zemo nor Rumlow were answering, and while they were stocked for the moment, she knew her men could not hold up the fight indefinitely. Even less so, now that the National Guard was closing in around them and the back-u mercenaries unable to be pulled in. Oh, that news pleased the ex-assassin very much. Almost as much as the minute creaks and groans from the vehicles in the ring as others secured their hold as well. Taking the opportunity, she leaped, her hands wrapping around the lip of an opened window of the sedan above her, her feet providing enough momentum and grip to push her all the way up.

"Hey, hope you don't mind," the Black Widow crooned, hopping atop the roof of the trashed car and crouching low. Another shriek, and she met the gaze of an outraged doctor and the raised weapons of her dark-armored guards. Nodding to Jensen and he personal ring of soldiers surrounding her, she let her smirk widen slightly. "Brought some friends to this party."

The spoken cue given, the others rose up, circling the small party. Finesse executed a front hand spring, her batons materializing in her hands as she landed. To her right came Crystal, her black-streaked hair wafting in the breeze as she pushed herself over the barricade of vehicles. Her hands cupped up, dirt and stone of the street rising up to form steps, should she wish to descend into the crafted hidey-hole. Two arrows landed at the doctor's feet, forcing her to glance up at the next set of arrivals. Two brunettes, one wielding a bow and a knife strapped to her belt, while the other merely stared at her as if she was plumbing out the secrets of her soul. Risking a look at her men, who had not acted, she could see that all attention was turned to the empty-handed one, as if awaiting her signal. Wanda, having been called away from her escort duties just for this purpose, hovered to the right of them, having finally mastered enough control over her auras to allow herself sustained flight for long periods of time. Her eyes glowed unearthly scarlet as she stared down at Jensen, her eyebrow arching slightly as she glowered back. The woman's mud-colored eyes burned them, the dirt and sweat upon her brow fading in the face of her rage. Upon her back were twin canisters, much like the ones she had last year. However, instead of harnessed energy, the redhead did not doubt that they instead contained accelerant. The nozzles with the sparking devices strapped to her wrists confirmed it.

Well, she did not think it would be anything other than a challenge, she mused privately. But she would still act against the woman, dragged her pixie-cut ass through the dirt behind her as she did so. Natasha, rising from her crouch, lifted her chin and extended her hands, stunner discs filling them. Flicking her gaze from one female Avenger to the next, she nodded. They had answered her call, approved of her ambush idea from the start, eager to join in and eradicate the third menace on the street before she could rally her men back to her side.

"Ladies' choice," she announced, just as Kate Bishop thumb the button on her bow and the embedded arrows popped, stunning smoke filtering and disorienting their enemies. Pushing herself off her perch and leading the attack in, Romanoff held her resolve. Jensen would not get the best of her this time, and she would not let Clint take her revenge away from her. This time, it would be the women Avengers who would settle that score.

 **xXxXxXx**

The fog of consciousness drew Rumlow out more and more, his back aching as he shifted on the ground. Shards of glass littered the dirt around him, and he had twigs and branches digging into him as he laid there in the garden. Over his crackling comm link, he could hear the screams, the shrieks, of the hired soldiers. The battle was turning in the Avengers' favor, as both his trained mercenaries and Zemo's acquired hands were falling left and right. The commanders within the ranks spouted off one after another, streets given over to the National Guard little by little. The members of the United Nations were getting away, led on by the prince of Wakanda to safe destinations beyond the blockades, their leverage disappearing in the wind. Within those calls, the screech of Jensen rebounded in his ear, her central command being overrun by the she-wolves of the teams. He ground his teeth in irritation, the fury in him climbing to newer heights. For all his promises, it seemed that Zemo's plans were coming to naught.

He should never have agreed, should never have listened to him. In the end, there was only one person Brock Rumlow could trust to get the job done, and that was himself. With a strangled moan, he rolled onto his side, hissing as tiny pinpricks of glass managed to bite through the weave of his gloves. The trickle of blood at the corner of his jaw flowed a little more freely as he rose up onto his knees, pushing himself up onto his feet. Another voice came over the link, on the secure line between him and his personal guard of mercenaries. Evidently, his own second-in-command was still alive, still free, and he was ready to be utilized again.

"Sir, Zemo is not responding," he reported, grunting as muffled thumps and shouts snapped on his end. Huffing, he continued, "Should we move on?"

Eyes darkened as Rumlow strode forward, ready to complete his mission, his way. It was overdue, and he would not wait any longer.

"Yes. Move to Contingency Plan A," he commanded, the rough grind of his voice piercing as he stepped onto the path of the garden. Locating the exit, he began to hoof it, determined to find his next target with all swiftness. "Place 'em and blow 'em!"

The directive given, he concentrated on distancing himself, momentarily content with allowing his last men blowing the place sky-high. At least they would get the last stragglers inside with the explosions of a few bombs. Gritting his teeth, he broke into a jog, ready to make his final stand.

 **xXxXxXx**

A ring and a clang, and the shield embedded itself in the nearby wall after barreling into the chest of one of his assailants. Jogging fast, Steve managed to pluck it up in time for the next hired soldier to take a swing at him. A small frisson of pain jolted through him as he slid, a shot taken earlier at his leg making him hiss. It matched a similar injury on his right arm, both shots made with special, piercing rounds developed and distributed among the enemy soldiers. However, the adrenaline high he was still riding completely shoved the hurt down, packed it away as it had so many times in previous battles. What was his focus at the moment was the fight at hand. Things had stalled out for him and the small band of fighters with him on the steps of the building. As he'd promised, Parker had stuck to Ant-Man's side like glue, the both of them moving with the captain in the forward press and taking down enemies as they could. The remaining mercenaries were not about to surrender their claim, so the Avengers had started to chip away at their control. Chapman had regrouped with Duquesne, Union Jack and the Swordsman taking on a leftover squadron to the south with the Guard backing them up. Quicksilver was hard at work with the prince, the last stragglers of the United Nations under their protection as they were brought beyond the barriers to safety. The Black Widow and the hastily assembled troupe of the women Avengers had secured the blocks controlled by Jensen, the antagonist down and in their custody. Still, he needed to make another call in.

"Progress?" he requested from the others, rolling to the side and kicking at his assailant's hip, making him drop unceremoniously to the ground. Chapman responded at once, stating how he and the others were close to securing the outer perimeters. Another buzz and shift, and Tony started to report as the captain landed a solid punch to his adversary's temple.

"Sweeping up deserters on the fringes. Looks like we've got a few darting around the building still, keep an eye out."

"I see them," Sam growled, spotting them from his current position. Having locked down the upper floors, he had procured a few guns from the fallen inside, making final sweeps along the balconies.

"Got another set of eyes up here, too," Bucky replied, and Steve darted his gaze upward. The ex-assassin had taken point upon the rooftop, a rifle in hand and his sharp gaze examining the terrain expertly. "I'll snipe anybody who tries anything funny. They're good for one thing, at least: abandoning equipment when it's needed."

A few taps came over the line, the rapping indicating Barnes's hold on the stolen equipment, and Rogers merely smirked to himself.

"Cap, the civs are all either in the underground levels or beyond the border," Rhodey called out, the huff of his breath as he ran crackling over the line. "I'm making my way out to you."

"Good, got a suit queued and ready for ya," Tony cut in then, the arc of his blasters overhead following as he circled the building. "This one is coded specifically for you, I promise."

A muffled groan tore out of the colonel's throat. "Oh, God, what did you do to it?"

"Nothing...it just may or may not be hot pink," the billionaire returned, the ghost of a chuckle at the back of his voice. Unable to help himself, Steve felt the corner of his mouth curl at the exchange. Off Rhodey's unimpressed grumbling, Stark shot back, "Hey, I paid for the paint, I wasn't gonna waste it."

"Captain Rogers, Captain!" a desperate voice called through, the brief joviality lost to them. Frowning, Steve plucked up his shield from the wall it was embedded in.

"Viz?" he queried. The android had been relieved of his escort duties after the remaining members of the United Nations had gone down to the lower levels, locking up the doors behind them and joining Stark for aerial call-outs and assaults. Thus far, he'd been occupied with some thugs around the back, easily able to handle himself. What had happened to make him sound so distressed?

"The remaining mercenaries have been placing bombs around structural supports while you were alternately engaged," he explained, and the captain's stance went rigid. At once, his eyes began to sweep around the nearby supports, trying to spot anomalies there. "I've managed to disarm some, but not all. If triggered, they could—"

The android's report was stalled, the distant sound of clicking and beeping heard. Lang and Parker looked to him, anxiety rippling through their forms. Distantly, he could hear Tony affirming that the bombs were active, his HUD spotting them and marking them so that he could swoop in fast to disarm them. Frantically, Rogers called down the line to the android, hoping he could confirm that he was completing his task.

"Viz, what's happening?" he crowed, pivoting on his heel as he continued his own sweeps. The absolute fear and concern in the android's voice made his blood run cold, made him stop short in his forward press.

"Oh, no," the Vision breathed, and before another word could be spoken, distant pops could be heard, the ground starting to rumble and shake under his feet. Suddenly, a wave of mercenaries shot past them, and Steve finally caught sight of blinking boxes at the front doors. Spying them as well, and noting the placement of his and Parker's physical bodies, Lang jerked back in horror.

"Oh, shit!" he screamed, the blinking of the boxes pausing, the last few seconds counting down. The captain sprang forward, determined to get to them before the bombs went off.

"Watch out!" he yelled, just as the counters clicked and bright fire spat out. The force of the blasts rocked him backward, threw him and Lang to the ground. Shattered supports and concrete rained down, chunks spilling and rolling around them as they were loosed upon the steps. The metal sculpture of the twisted gun was dented, swaying precariously as the ground shook for several long seconds. Plumes of dust and smoke rose into the sky, marring the blue with the wafting black and gray. Soon enough, the percussive and physical assault of the explosions wore off, and Steve lowered his shield, pulling himself up from the crouch he'd dropped into for safety. To his left, Lang pushed himself onto his knees, shaking his head and brushing the concrete dust from the sleeves of his suit. Tony, having tried to zoom down before the bombs went off, was projected backward by the blast, pushing him squarely into the middle of the fight with the remaining mercenaries in the field. He would get to them as soon as he could. A signal wave glinting off the metal hand of his friend from the roof told Steve that Bucky had survived the crumble of the building beneath him, his position maintained for the most part. Still, he felt the clawing nails of nervousness dig into him as he failed to locate Peter. Screaming out his codename, it took a few moments of the smoke clearing to spot the kid.

Parker was trapped, the layers of the upper levels having collapsed upon him. His hands were held above his head, holding a thick chunk of wall and roof laced liberally with glass up as he stood.

"Ow," the teenager groaned, shaking his head wearily. Though his strength had tripled since his alteration months ago, bracing against pieces of a collapsed building landing atop him was no sinecure. His arms shook a little, and he shuffled in his stance, trying to keep his footing and not bend to the pile of fireblock and concrete pinning him in place. Plaintively, he croaked, "It's heavy. Really heavy."

Noticing his struggle, Steve dipped his chin, beginning to move forward as Lang sprang up from the ground.

"Hang on, kid, we'll get you out," he promised Peter, swinging to lock his shield onto the harness. They had to move quickly, before the boy was crushed under the weight of broken stone and steel.

"ROGERS!" The unwavering, furious cry echoed across the small courtyard, across the steps, and pulled him up short. There stood Brock Rumlow, his scarred face contorted in rage and his eyes blazing with hatred. The stare of curiosity from Scott was obvious, but he did not remark upon it. Instead, he watched as the mercenary, the man with a grudge and no outlet, stride woodenly forward, the tight coil of his body threatening to snap the closer he got. There were no barriers between them now, no rules, no code of conduct. It was real, it was personal, and it would happen. Pointing to him, Rumlow snarled, "You're mine."

"Go," Steve commanded in a low tone to his compatriot. Spotting the flicker of defiance in Lang's posture, he shook his head and jerked his chin towards Peter. "Go help him. I've got this."

A last glance was directed between him and the mercenary, and then Scott heeded the demand, running over to Parker to protect him while he was incapacitated. Circles wound around the steps as the two opponents sized one another up. Precious seconds passed, cold resolve facing flaming ferocity. With an unholy roar, Rumlow ran towards him, and Steve rushed forward, shield retrieved and raised in time for the mercenary to land on it bodily. A flurry of punches and jabs were taken at one another, Rumlow's rebounding off the shield more often than not. However, the mercenary was not deterred by its presence. Grabbing onto its edges, he forced the captain to twist and flip over, forcing him to keep his balance at the expense of loosening the hold upon the defensive item. A sharp kick to the hip, and Steve jerked to the right, pushing him to detach from the shield or risk breaking his arm in the process. Rather than take up the shield for his own use, Rumlow threw it away contemptuously; he didn't need to hide behind a disc, his battle prowess was too great for that. A knife came to hand, the last weapon upon his person after losing the rest in his earlier bout with Wilson. Flipping it in his palm, he brought it down at an angle, attempting to catching an evading Rogers in the shoulder. He was a little too late in his swing, the captain able to dodge it and work his way behind the scarred man. Wrapping one arm around his torso, he forced the fellow up off his feet, hurling him into the stone steps and rolling partway down the flight with him. Ignoring the sharp pains in his back and limbs, Steve got himself upright, kicking away the knife at Rumlow rose, too. It became a match of strength, each man unwilling to give an ground or hold back as they punched and kicked. A blow to his left eye caught Steve off-guard, but he managed to give his own back to Brock as he kneed him in the gut seconds later. More twists and leaps at each other were executed, footing unsteady on the layered steps and the debris of the blast. Using it to his advantage, Rumlow managed to roll his way behind Rogers after falling, springing up and wrapping his arm around the captain's neck from behind. Struggling against the constriction, Steve roughly shoved them both backwards to the wall in the hope that the impact would break the mercenary's hold on him. It failed, and instead Brock clung on harder, like a demented koala determined to kill. As he slapped and pushed against the forearm cutting off his air supply, the captain froze as the mercenary bent his head, his cruel voice dripping with unmasked loathing.

"First you, and then her," he hissed in his ear. His elbow tightened around his throat, a dark promise at the back of his voice as he continued to hang onto him. "Screw Zemo and his rules. Your bitch is gonna regret the day she met you when I find her, after I'm finished here. She'll be begging for the end, for her and the little bastard of yours. I'll make sure of it."

The haze in Steve's eyes cleared, and all he could see was red. Rumlow threatening him was one thing, but his wife? His son? Any hope that he could be spared for detainment and justice went completely out the window; Rumlow would be brought to his knees. Focusing all his power into his own elbow, the captain drove it back, catching the mercenary hard enough in the side to grunt, his hold loosening slightly around his throat. With that bit of leverage, Steve drew in a fast breath, his foot smashing hard into his opponent's, causing him to yelp and release him further. Wedging his arms up and over, he pushed off Rumlow, his onslaught becoming ferocious. Every jab, every punch, every kick launched at the mercenary was filled with the dark fury that was seated deep within him. The pain of the wounds in his arm and leg had dissipated, and he felt nothing but purpose flowing through him. For his part, Rumlow returned the blows as best he could, but he was no match for an outraged, righteous Captain America. Driven from the side of the building back out towards the short flight of stairs, Steve maneuvered the other man closer and closer to his shield, where it had landed earlier. If he could grab it, it could turn the tide of the fight completely. The bodies littering the steps were no more than mere obstacles in both their eyes, their worlds narrowing down to one another as they went. However, in Brock's case, that would be a fatal mistake to make.

Shuffling backward, the mercenary was too distracted by both the captain's unending waves of hits and his own pride in returning them that he failed to be aware of his surroundings. His boots tangled in the legs of one fallen soldier as he tried to move swiftly backward, and he tumbled down, landing solidly on his back. Scrabbling to right himself, to get himself in a less favorable position, his fingers flicked over the concrete, brushing against cooling metal. Unable to subdue the manic glee in his sudden smile, he palmed the hand gun that had been dropped and brought it up, aiming it at the captain's head as he lurched up. The barrel of the gun pressed between his eyes, and Rogers brought up his hands slowly, stance still wide as he all but dared him to follow through. Clipping the other man in the head would be all too easy. Too easy, and therefore too good for him. Instead, he huffed out a wheezing laugh, lowering the pistol so that it was aimed somewhere it would do far more damage. The chest plating of the uniforms provided for the Avengers would no doubt be strong, but at the joins where cloth was weaved with the other materials, it would not be. One shot, and he would watch Captain America bleed out. Thus resolved, he wedged the gun there and moved his finger over the trigger, rotating by turns so that his back was towards the building, towards his means of escape after it was all over. It had to be done, before Rogers worked out a way to disarm him.

Bucky, on the roof, had the pair in his sights the entire time, watching out for Steve as he picked off any other approaching enemies. When his friend was being strangled, he did not have a clear shot, but now, he did. Squeezing the trigger, the kickback plowed into him, and he felt his breath go ragged as both Rumlow and Rogers jerked. The gun in the mercenary's hand had spit fire within those brief moments, one last blow dealt before a bullet pierced through one side of his head to the other. Gracelessly, Brock Rumlow slumped to the side, eyes seeing nothing and jaw slack, succumbing to his death as he fell to the ground. Over him, Rogers braced one hand on his uninjured leg, bending at the waist as the other pressed to his chest. Taking his hand away, he seemed almost surprised to find it stained with blood. Spying the action through his scope, Bucky felt ice invade his veins. His shot had been for nothing. He hadn't acted quickly enough. Somewhere in the background, cheers cut through the air, echoed in his comm, the battle won and the army surrendering as the last leader fell to Natasha's hands. He couldn't hear it, however, over the truth pounding in his brain.

Steve was shot.

Yet somehow he was still moving, despite that. Albeit, he had only made it about two feet away from the dead mercenary, falling to the ground as he tried to numbly pick up his dropped shield. Failing that, he settled for crawling a ways, towards where Ant-Man (Giant Man, really, given how he had to enlarge to do as he was tasked) was helping clear the last of the debris off of Peter. Both of them halted in their endeavor, staring in horror as blood drips followed along with his movements. Above him, Stark hovered, zooming down and landing just beside him.

"Rogers," he barked his leader's name, the barest flicker of a blue eyes at him worrying him far more than his posture. At once, Tony removed his helmet, letting it crash to the ground as he knelt beside him. Tugging on his shoulder, he crowed again, "Cap, Steve!"

A hand weakly slapped back at his, but it was entirely ineffectual.

"Okay...'sokay," Steve slurred, the breath in his throat rattling as he tried to inhale. Looking up, he narrowed his eyes on the white pieces of Peter's mask, as though he thought if he concentrated hard enough, he could see them clearly. "Pete, you alright?"

The stricken look on the teenager's face was not visible, but the rigid set of his body more than made up for it. America's first Avenger was shot, bleeding, and still he asked if _he_ was okay? Carefully, he nodded, tipping his head once to Scott as the older man stared on.

"I'm fine."

"Good," the captain said, the word riding on his exhale just as he collapsed onto his forearms. Staying upright was painful, so painful that he wanted to scream or cry, and he couldn't take it anymore. The adrenaline that had sustained him throughout the battle was draining away, leaving him to deal with the wretched tear and pull upon his body. That, in turn, caused him to tip to the side, more blood dribbling over his uniform. It seemed to trigger some form of uproar, as suddenly voices and hand flurried around him, shoving him back up into a sitting position. His head lolled back, a hard swallow bobbing in his throat. It hurt, and he was so tired...a metal-encased hand tapped at his chin, rousing him.

"Steve, come on, don't do that," Tony instructed, his tone flat as he kept the other palm between his shoulder blades, propping him up. A swish and a grunt echoed in his hearing, Bucky being flown down by the Vision as he had requested after the shot was made. Both man and android had joined the ring of stunned onlookers, electric blue eyes scanning over him swiftly.

"The bullet, it didn't exit," the Vision reported, a tremor of worry lacing his voice as he examined the captain. "Though it was a clean shot between the front plates, it is stuck in the back ones. Entry and exit wound are clear. However, there's also the arm and the leg wounds to contend with."

Those wounds were bleeding as well, but not at the rate the chest wound was. There were also potentially cracked bones, a split lip and bruising around the face to contend with, but there was no question about where the priority lay.

"Let's worry about the chest first," Stark recommended, his own dark gaze peering at the injury. "He's gonna bleed out if we don't do something."

Given his personal knowledge of chest wounds, one would be hard-pressed not to take his word for it. The spoken thought should have made Steve at least a little nervous, but all he could feel was muted pain and his labored breathing. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the Vision's head bob up and down.

"Applying pressure will staunch the flow of blood for a time, but not long."

The course decided upon, Ant-Man lurched forward to help as they began to wrestle off his helmet and plating, back to his normal stature. Gauntlets were peeled away, and another hazy thought came to mind as Steve let them do it.

"Help others...call..." he muttered, his hand reaching up and tapping his ear. Someone had to call in the rescue crews, now that the battle had turned and was won. With the others so occupied, Steve stared hard at Bucky, urging him to do what he could not. Taken aback by it, he managed to act immediately, tapping into the channel and giving the commands as Stark and Lang began to tug off the rest of the captain's upper armor.

"Evac teams, you are go for entry! We need medical onsite immediately, we have civilians and team members down. Anyone still on their feet, start doing sweeps," he said, barely waiting for confirmation to be parroted back at him before kneeling on the ground. With the armor off, the blood began to flow heavily for a moment. With the reinforced strength of his suit, Stark pressed his palms hard against both exit and entry wounds in the chest and back. Sacrificing his jacket, Bucky and Scott tore off the sleeves to use as makeshift bandages around the injured arm and leg, the kid going with the Vision to signal the medics when they came. Glancing up, he gasped, "Hold on, Steve."

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to America's Golden Boy, not to him. Not to his friend. If anybody deserved to be shot, Bucky reckoned it should be himself. God, Rogers had to make it. In turn, Steve merely grunted, head drooping and eyelids fluttering shut.

"Focus, Rogers," Tony said, the desperate edge in his voice sneaking out. Weary blue eyes blinked open, staring at nothing as his head slowly tipped back up. Not liking that one bit, the billionaire cleared his throat, issuing another command. "Look at me, look at the face that irritates you the most and watch it intently. Count all the gray hairs if you have to, there's a ton of them now."

To his credit, Steve did his best to follow the instructions, a weak laugh coming out as he lolled his head to look at him. His gaze cleared enough to the point that it looked like he was concentrating, but it did not last. Soon enough, his focus wandered, and Stark's heart gave a terrible thump.

"Sorry, Tony," he muttered, and a startling flash of sorrow seared through the billionaire.

"You can't do this right now, man. Not you, too," he whispered, his palms pressing in hard enough to draw out another hiss of pain from his friend. No matter how far they'd gone, no matter how terrible things had gotten, he never wanted to see this happen. He didn't want his friend to...he couldn't allow himself to complete the thought. The thickness in his throat caught up to him, and he could barely clear it. "Your kid needs his stick-in-the-mud dad, come on."

At that, Steve's eyes shut, and his jaw gritted hard. His free hand clenched, his body doing what it could to fight back. A stray tear or two leaked from beneath the lids, the throb of pain intensifying. It just hurt so much, and he was so tired...the din and wail of sirens melted away, fading along with the voices of his friends as he listened to his own labored breathing. In, and out. In, out. New voices cut through his awareness, but he did not look up.

"Captain Rogers," someone called out to him, and he could not make himself answer back. So tired, so tired...

"Holl," he murmured, the name on his lips like a prayer as the world filtered around him, graying and blurring just as an oxygen mask was slipped over his face.

* * *

 **A/N:**...So how many of you hate me right now?

I know some of you have been waiting for the other shoe to drop for awhile now...how big of a drop do you reckon that was? Steve's about in the shape that he was in after the helicarrier disaster...instead the wounds are a bit deeper than before. Just bear in mind, the story isn't over yet. We still have a ways to go. Still have to find out what happened with the rest of the teams...and how Holly's going to take the news.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one.


	27. Chapter 27

The direct order was finally given, and the rescue teams of SHIELD were deployed. They split off in packs of three or four, each with the express directive of finding any and all injured parties, removing them from the dangerous conditions and placing them in the proper hands. That meant ferrying people out to the paramedics, to the nearest hospitals, and it also meant that no discrimination was to take place. Any injured enemies were to be taken in as well, if they were not directly incarcerated; legality issues aside, it meant that there would be more interrogation opportunities to be had. Or, at least, that was Kay's cynical assessment of the situation. Still, her loyalties would not prevent her from doing her job. She would just keep her pistol at the ready when she was unloaded into the fray.

It was what Kay Szymik was trained to do, had been her field for years before she'd started working under the Avengers. Granted, it was atypical to be sent in when the action had completed, but for that, she was grateful. Taking time was not exactly an option, but it would not be a helter-skelter dash to extract people while under heavy fire. She, along with her assigned coworkers, were flown in, dropped on the veritable back doorstep to canvas the interior of the collapsed building. The front was swarming with bodies as it was, and they had no other choice than to be left there. The teams assigned were split up, hers being ordered to check out the upper floors. There were reports forwarded that indicated there were individuals inside, and they needed to ascertain whether or not that was the case. Taking out her scanner, the device started to blip and blink as she moved. Steps taken were cautious, as the explosives that had been rigged to the building before had made it all unsteady. Carefully, she picked her way across the floor, gingerly hopping over fallen columns and caved-in sections of the ceiling that had come loose. The distant wail of sirens permeated the silence for long moments, before her scanner started to beep. It had picked up the form of a person, trapped under the splintered part of the building at the end of the hallway. The heat signature picked up by the machine told her that the person underneath was still alive.

"Got one over here!" Kay called back to her teammates, pocketing her device as she crept closer to the trapped individual. Getting on her hands and knees, she lifted a few pieces of the debris off the fallen fellow, blowing a piece of her hair out of her face as she did so. She focused on freeing the area where the scanner had told her the head was. If the person was conscious, she wanted them to be able to see what was going on, knowing how disoriented he or she was likely to be. Dumping the pieces to the side, she did something completely out of her character in times like those. She froze, stared at the man under the rubble. "Oh, my God. Sam."

It was Sam Wilson, dust and blood on his face, but still alive. The rebar and broken beams pinned him there. All her training was screaming at her to maintain her impartiality, to treat the situation like it was just any other person. But it was overwhelmed by the cries of the person was Sam, and no matter what falling out they'd had, she still cared for him, and she couldn't just act like it was nothing. No matter who or what was at hand.

"Ugh," he groaned, blinking rapidly against the pain in his body, his head.

"Sammy," she gasped, her voice drawing him out of his fog. Hearing even that little bit of noise made a frisson of relief shoot through her. However, she knew better than to let herself give into it. He was still trapped, and she could not let him stay that way. Gently, her hand reached in and cupped his cheek, and she whispered, "I'm gonna get you out, honey, okay? Hang on, just hang on."

Calling out again, Kay could barely contain herself as the other members of her team finally responded. Pitching in to help her clear debris, she heard one or two of them mutter about the pinned Avenger. How had this happened to him? Wasn't he trained to avoid situations like that? She nearly bit through her tongue to stop herself from telling them off, from reminding them that disasters and circumstances such as the ones that led to him being trapped could happen to anyone, regardless of their training. Instead, she let them work, the flimsy pieces of ceiling and wall pushed to the side. Once most of the lighter pieces had been cleared, she instructed the others to grab the rebar at key points, to lever it up while she pulled him free. Though she had superior strength on her side, she had made a promise to be the one to get Sam out. And she would do it; she would be the one to free him bodily from the wreckage. Shifting on his back, Sam moaned a little, one palm rising before it fell back and he hissed in agony. Not a broken arm, she mused, but perhaps his clavicle? She would know for sure once he was out and could use her scanner properly.

"I know it hurts, but you have to give me your hand," she said, coaxing him to do so. Holding out her own, she waited until he sucked in a deep breath, a bare nod and growling groan crawling out as he complied. With his fingers laced tightly around her palm, her other hand reach down further, gripping at his bicep. Looking up at her comrades, she inclined her head. "On three...one, two..."

The remaining debris was lifted from his legs, and swiftly she tugged, pulling him away with ease. Once his legs were clear, they dropped the rebar and sheet rock back down, all of it thudding as it landed.

"Gah! Damn it!" Sam barked, a stray tear or two leaking out of his eyes as fire ripped from shoulder to shoulder. Kay ignored his curses, digging out her scanner and recalibrating it to show her the damage. Shuffling around him on her knees, she waved the device, ticks and pings showing her what she couldn't see.

"Broken collarbone, bruising and lacerations, possible concussion," she rattled off under her breath, tapping the scanner in hand to record the potential injuries. Another look at his blown pupils confirmed that last suspicion of hers, and she sighed. Looping one arm around his waist, and locking the other across his shoulders to keep his broken bones in place, she hoisted Sam onto his feet. "We gotta get you to a medic."

To her team members, she bade them to continue their sweeps, as she would assist the Avenger out to find aid. One of them objected, stating that she shouldn't go off on her own. Blearily, Sam raised an eyebrow at the guy, bluntly stating that she was more capable than most to do so. Grimacing and grunting at the pain, his fingers curled into the material of her suit, bloodied knuckles bunching at her waist. Holding her ground, she stared down the fellow until he backed off, his grumbles at the others to join him in doing sweeps melting as they strode away, picking their way up to the next floor. As one, Kay and Sam started to walk, slow steps taken as they carefully went down the back staircase. A few steps had been knocked loose, and her grasp around him tightened as feet slipped and slid on occasion. Trying to keep his balance (and not throw up as the world spun and shifted around him), his dark eyes squinted, focusing on the blue-haired woman beside him as they went.

"And how are you, Kay?" he huffed, a ghost of a chuckle at the back of his throat. The enforced joviality was keeping him steady, something she recognized. Her thumb brushed along his hip, and she canted her head to the right.

"Could be worse," she retorted, almond eyes narrowing in slight humor. The corner of his mouth turned up at that.

"Could be me," he joked, wincing as he stepped too hard, the jarring sensation shooting up his leg and rattling his torso. Kay snorted at that, pausing with him as he tried to steady himself.

"True."

Once he'd found his equilibrium again, they continued the journey, side-stepping debris and making their way out the front steps. A team of paramedics were already posted there, and pick-up for hospital transfers would be called in if needed. Before they reached the (shattered) front doors, Sam stopped again. Kay paused, the quizzical set of her brow unmistakeable. Balancing precariously beside her, he bent his head, swaying a little as he gripped her harder.

"Baby, I..." he murmured, gathering steam to keep going. His brown gaze raised from the floor, connecting with hers, and she could see the swirl of all the things left unsaid between them, of all the things that were trying to force their way out. Shaking her head, she brought a finger to his lips, stemming his speech. She would concede that they did have much to discuss, but for now, that was not the primary concern.

"Later, alright?" she said, the pucker of his frown under her finger making her smile wanly. Removing the digit, she instead cupped his cheek again, the world contracting to just the two of them. Taking a shaky breath, she went on, "I promise. Let's get you patched up first."

Exhaustion lining his features, Sam dipped his chin, the fingers still at her waist squeezing before she guided him to walk once more. There would be time, and plenty of it, to talk. It could wait until he was tended to, at least.

 **xXxXxXx**

The news feeds had cut out, the stations recalling their reporters as the rescue crews began their sweeps into the battle-torn streets surrounding the United Nations buildings. The officers of the National Guard were escorting them and other civilians away from the perimeter, orders given to allow efficient clean-up and arrests of the offenders who still were alive. Detainment vehicles were speeding onto the land, the cameras catching the barest glimpse of SHIELD agents swarming the field before the studios assumed control of the airwaves again. Speculation as to the underlying causes, and what would happened to the apprehended perpetrators, were bandied about, but Holly's concerns were elsewhere. Muting the feed before her, she stared down at her cellphone, the device silent for the first time in hours.

In between helping Maria intercept and deflect calls from the separate organizations who were in league with the team, she'd been getting her own desperate messages. Her parents had left one, begging her to tell them what was going on out in the city, if Steve was in trouble. Heather and Hank left separate messages after that, telling her that she needed to call in with Mom and Dad before they exploded, their own fears for her husband lacing their tones and pleas. One from Jane Foster had sneaked its way onto the device, another from Pepper Potts joining it. Sarah had taken it upon herself to text her repeatedly, knowing she would be more likely to get an answer that way. When quiet moments fell on the main lines, she rattled off messages to them all, telling them what she knew, and offering to share more when she had more information.

There was no news to share, and she was unsure whether that was good or bad. Sighing, her free hand scratched at the curve of her belly, the ache of her back finally registering as she sat back in it. Still, she continued to stare at her phone, hoping to receive some kind of word soon. Alone in the conference room for the moment, the silence ate at her, and she almost leaped from her seat the moment Maria returned from her private call. However, her action was stilled as she took in the hard expression on the older woman's face. Bright eyes swept up, meeting her dark gaze, and they flashed with an emotion she never thought she'd see in Maria.

It was pity. And it chilled her insides to see it.

"Holly..." Hill paused, trying to find her tongue again. There had been many times in the past that she'd received news such as had been relayed to her, and had given similar speeches as well. However, it was never easy news to give, particularly when she cared for the people involved. Drawing upon her courage, Maria managed to look Holly directly in the eye, her shoulders squared and her back stiff. "Steve's been hit. It's bad."

The tight spring of denial in Holly flowed up, wanted to ignore or refute the other woman's claim. But the honesty in her gaze, the sadness that hovered behind it, told her that Hill was telling the truth. Ice flooded her veins, and her phone dropped onto the table before her, bouncing and clattering across the glass. Sinking back into her chair, she buried her face in her hands, dread and horror robbing her of her voice. After all that time, after so many missions and close calls, it had happened. It was a nightmare coming true, disgust and sorrow climbing up her throat and threatening to push out. Her shoulders shook, eyes watered, and several long seconds passed in which she could do nothing else.

Dully, she recalled a story Steve had told her once, about his year spent touring the country. Though he did not care to speak often of the experience (frankly, aspects of it still embarrassed him to no end, as well as irritated him), there were things that he could not allow himself to push away. He'd gotten to know the girls he'd performed with, along with the stagehands who traveled along with them and joined up between cities. They spoke of their families, their loved ones, of their brothers and fathers who had gone off to fight. As proud as they were of their fellas, the others were afraid for them. He had been, too; after all, his best friend was out there, risking his neck daily overseas. What most of them dreaded, when they made calls home in between shows, was the news that a telegram had been delivered.

Telegrams were the chosen way to inform a family that their soldier was grievously injured, missing in action, or killed. The poor boys assigned to the job were known as angels of death, and were feared more than any stage superstition he'd learned about.

One of the girls, Ruth, had found out about her brother that way, the news having been forwarded to the theater they were performing at in Chicago. Collapsing into tears as the unfortunate teenager assigned to the task had tried to hand over the telegram, Ruth was ringed by the rest of the girls before the dressing room door was slammed in the boy's face. Intercepting the kid, Steve escorted him safely out of the theater, the younger man shaking his head and sincere sorrow decorating his features. Ruth, understandably, could not pull herself together in time for the show, and everyone chipped in to send her home to her family immediately after the curtain fell.

The girls feared telegrams, the Barnes family was terrified they would receive one...it was not something he would wish upon anyone, he'd told her. Finding out about a loved one's hurt or demise via unfeeling text on paper, the idea made his heart ache.

She remembered taking his hand, her head resting on his shoulder, and whispering that she feared that, too. It would not come on paper, not nowadays, but a message of that nature could find its way to her. She was afraid of receiving something like that, knowing it very well could happen due to the lives they had chosen to lead together. He could say nothing to that, his eyes closing and his cheek pressing to her hair as he'd squeezed her fingers.

And now, there it was. The telegram at the door, delivered in spite of her wants and wishes. Sniffing hard, the frightened tears dripped down her cheeks as she scooted out of her chair. Her hands flew, scooping up her phone and abandoned laptop, the pile of Steve's clothes rifled through until she extracted the ring of keys within. Gathering up all that and her purse, she shuffled as fast as she could out the door, as close to a run as she dared as she pushed herself to get to the elevator. Heels clicked behind her, easily catching up to her as she went. A hand curled around her elbow, Maria trying to stop her.

"Where are you going?" she asked, new concern blossoming inside her. Frantically, Holly tried to shake her off, her breathing growing more ragged as she tried to pull away.

"I've gotta get there. I gotta go right now, Maria," she huffed, red splotches blotting her face as she squirmed. Twists and twinges in her gut wracked her, but she could not pay them any mind. "Steve, he, he..."

Hill's free hand gripped her shoulder, and a mild shake was given to stem the onslaught of her anxiety.

"Holly, you can't. You're in no condition to drive, and you don't know where you're going. The city is a war zone right now," Maria reminded her, watching as the younger woman started to deflate before her eyes. Shaking her head, she continued, "Besides, driving would be too slow."

Putting a hand to her ear, she tapped her comm link, her call connecting in a matter of seconds.

"This is Hill, is the jet ready?" she inquired, ignoring the quirk of Holly's brow. A quinjet had been left at the base in the unlikely event that evacuation would be necessary, and as the trouble in the city had passed, she could commandeer the craft. Receiving an affirmation, she grunted, "Good, go through take-off prep and mark a course for New York. We're on our way up."

Words failed Holly for several seconds, the implications of Maria's commands forcing their way into her understanding. Fresh tears spilled over, and one arm wormed loose, catching the older woman around the shoulders and pulling her into a grateful hug.

"Thank you, thank you," she crowed, and Maria, after a couple of moments, managed to return the embrace, patting her back gently.

"Thank me later," she returned, carefully prying her away and turning her back towards the elevators. "Let's go."

The two women were on the platform in no time, Hill sending last-minute instructions to her assistant as they strapped themselves into their seats. Harnessed and ready to go, the quinjet rose rapidly, the agents with them utterly silent (save for establishing radio contact). As soon as they leveled out, Maria was back on her comm link again, determined to reestablish connection with the team. Tony Stark failed to answer, but Bucky picked up on the third try. Though she was only able to listen in on part of the conversation, Holly was able to pick up a few things. With Steve effectively down and out of commission, it had fallen on his erstwhile best friend to man the helm, the rest of the teams either too preoccupied or too injured themselves to do so. The rescue and evacuation groups were making their final sweeps, collecting the last of the fallen and shipping them off to different hospitals, clinics, and prisons around the city. ("What? New Jersey, too?" Maria had croaked, and Holly's eyebrows inclined, imagining Bucky's reaction to the sharp tone.) The U.N. members that had survived were also being treated, but most of them were in decent shape. Cutting to the chase for Holly's benefit, Maria asked for Steve's location. New York-Presbyterian had sent out some of the members of their emergency medical services, but it seemed that the captain had been taken to the facility on the Lower East Side. Passing the word onto the pilot, the jet turned sharply, making Holly's belongings slide and her stomach lurch—which prompted one of the agents to find a bag to put all her things in, at least. In under an hour, the jet was landing on the rooftop helicopter pad, special permission granted by the head administrator when Hill made a final round of calls. Both women were quick to get inside, the posted staff directing them deftly down the back elevators and away from the paparazzi that was ringing the hospital. Security was on high alert, supplemented by SHIELD agents at Fury's behest.

At the back of her mind, Holly was grateful for it, but could not express it. She could only concentrate on getting inside, getting to her husband. As she and her companion were guided out into the public areas of the hospital, she felt her heart thump hard in her chest. So many people were there, survivors of the attack waiting to hear about affected friends and family members, and she almost felt like she couldn't breathe. Glancing around, she did not know where to start. Sure, Maria had made sure to inform the passing nurses that Captain America's wife was on the premises, and that she would need to be informed on his condition as soon as possible, but that was all that had been done. At a loss, she gripped Maria's wrist, her other hand wrapped tightly around her borrowed bag's handles.

"Over here!" A metal arm glinted under the florescent lights, dropping once she spotted the owner of it fully. Something akin to relief flooded her, gladness working its way under the fear as she spotted him. He was bruised, and a couple cuts were slashed across his jaw, but he seemed alright. Holly made a beeline for him, just shy of actually pushing through the crowds in the waiting room to get to Bucky Barnes. Maria followed behind her, the hold the younger woman had on her wrist finally loosened. Dropping her bag on the floor, she wrapped her arms around the solid wall of armor and muscle, hugging Bucky for the first time ever in their association. Unbeknownst to her, he shot a shocked look over her head to Maria, who shrugged a shoulder at him. Awkwardly, he patted her back, waiting it out until she let go.

Swiping at her face, she stepped back, sniffing hard as she met Bucky's gaze.

"Where is he? What's, what's going on?"

The awkwardness melted into seriousness, and he replied dourly, "He's in surgery right now."

Her fingers shot out, curling into the ragged material of his jacket.

"Tell me," she pleaded with him, needing to hear it from someone. Reluctantly, he nodded, first pulling her over to a set of empty chairs that had been vacated only minutes beforehand.

"He was shot in the chest," he told her without preamble. He grimaced as she cupped a hand over her mouth, his lips thinning briefly. "Well, there and in the leg, and the arm, not to mention a few other things...anyway. The bastard managed to get the gun wedged between the plates, got off a good one. Stark slowed the bleeding some, long enough for the medics to get a hold of him. They don't know when he'll be out."

"Or if?" she blurted, fear coloring her forthrightness and pushing it out of her. When Bucky failed to respond, she tipped her head back, slumping in her seat and thumping into the wall. On her left, Maria perched on the edge of her chair, her palm coming to rest on her shoulder and rubbing gently. It took several long moments, but she managed to choke out, "You know, you talk about these things, when you're in this life, but when it happens...it's like a nightmare. Your worst dreams coming true. And I can't do anything but sit here and wait."

Bucky shared another glance with Hill, both of them all too aware of the truth of that statement. For his part, duty and obligation had forced him from Natasha's side, and by the time he learned she was to go in, he could do nothing but stand idly by. He was certain that for his friend's wife (maybe one day his friend, too), it was all the more painful. Unsure of the intelligence of his next action, he took Holly's hand in his, the cool metal of his fingers warming under her heated palm.

"He was...being himself. Protective, and stubborn, didn't want anyone else's safety compromised," he informed her quietly, the chatter of the other waiting people nearly drowning him out. Fatigue danced over his features, along with regret. If only he had acted quicker...well. Coughing, his blue gaze met Holly's watery brown, and he murmured, "I know it's not much of a consolation, but it wasn't a misstep or something. In case you thought..."

She shook her head, swiping a hand over her face once more. She knew it was not a misstep or a mistake. Steve's top priority of a mission was always to ensure the safety of the people around him, even at the cost of his own.

"I'm not surprised," she remarked. The cast of her face became hard, and her eyes were like flint when she looked at him again. "What happened to the prick who did it?"

Bucky's gaze did not waver a moment. "It's taken care of."

Holly took in the mirrored expression on Bucky's face, and her fingers curled around his hand, squeezing the metal once before dropping into her lap. Nodding once, she took a shaky breath, the race of her heart and the snap in her veins refusing to abate. With the time passing, she asked after the others, wanted to know how they all were. Barnes complied, gesturing for Maria to sit closer and hear his informal report. Chapman's team had come away with the least amount of injuries. Scrapes and bruises littered them liberally, though Pietro had walked away with a couple of bullet burns and Emily was bleeding heavily from her nose (the result of straining her powers beyond her personal capabilities). Joe had broken a couple fingers, and Finesse had twisted her ankle in the last bout with Doctor Jensen. Exhaustion and soreness tended to be their worst foes at the moment.

The good luck ended there, really, as he moved on to describe the primary team's ailments. Sam was in the same hospital, being treated for a collarbone break and concussion, due to being caught in the building when the explosives went off. The blue-haired woman was with him, keeping an eye out for him while he was tended to. Colonel Rhodes fared even worse, as he had been knocked down a flight of stairs and had some rubble collapsed upon him. His lower back was injured, both hips shattered and a leg broken. Hill and Holly shared a glance at that, but did not interrupt as he continued. Natasha had taken a bullet to the leg, along with a few bruises, and was on a separate surgery floor at the moment, with no report since she'd been brought in. The metal fist clenched hard when he relayed that, but he pushed himself to finish. Stark was with Rhodey, barely allowing the doctors time to look at the black eye he'd received, nor the cuts on his face. Lang was banged up, but nothing terrible had happened to him, and so he was left escorting another fellow back home. The spiked eyebrow Maria arched at him was lost on Holly, as she was absorbing all he told them.

They had all come through, some barely holding it together. Still, they had not lost anyone, and that was what counted. So far, at least. With little else to say, the trio lapsed into silence, save for when Bucky and Maria were forced to answer calls made through their comms. Hill was in a long, ongoing conference with Fury about how to handle the public relations aspect of the attack, and Bucky was trying his hardest to keep in touch with the teams, to keep things on an even keel as he responded to questions from other agents about next moves. The hours passed, and Holly had her own calls to make, relaying all that she knew to her family and friends. Food was passed into her hand by Maria as she talked her mother down from buying a plane ticket to be out there with her, and she had swallowed the last bite as she had to repeat the same conversation with Sarah, not even knowing what she had eaten. Though she was glad to have the support, she knew that extra bodies surrounding her would not do any good. Her mind raced too fast to settle long on any single thought, save for the fact that she just wished she knew how Steve was doing.

The door at the far end of the room, the one that led back to the patients' areas, had swung open and closed many times that afternoon, all for the others who were gathered in that small area. The light of the setting sun was streaking through the windows when it opened once more, but she did not react to it, assuming it would be for someone else.

"Mrs. Rogers?" Turning, Holly saw the doctor approaching, a middle-aged fellow with sharp lines cutting around his mouth. His surgical mask was looped below his chin, and his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for an answer. Rocking forward and rising, she padded over to him, hands wringing for a moment before curling around the hem of her blouse. Spotting her anxiety, the doctor's expression softened. "He's come through surgery. At the moment, he's stable, but the next twenty-four hours are critical."

And it was critical; it had been some miracle that the captain's body had not shut down by the time the EMTs had taken him in. Profuse bleeding had come from the wound, but by the time he on the surgical table, it appeared that it had tapered off. The path of the shot had carved through him, curving after bouncing off a rib, and so they had to repair the cracked bone and retrieve any possible splinters from it. However, aside from the obvious damage—and the minor burns around the exit and entry wounds—it did not appear that his major organs had suffered much. If the bullet had just been a little lower, it might've nicked an artery, or his lung, and he would've been...well.

Exhaling through his nose, the doctor finished, "He's resting now, but you can come see him."

Holly's shoulders sagged at the thought of finally being able to see Steve, even if he was asleep.

"Thank you, doctor," she said, before asking him to wait a moment. Going back to the chairs, she quietly informed Hill and Bucky of the situation, knowing that they could not be left in the dark indefinitely.

"Alright, good. You go see him, then. We'll be here," Maria told her softly, Bucky nodding in agreement as he passed her bag into her hands. Dipping her chin, she gave a waggle of her fingers in farewell as she followed the doctor out the waiting room. Through the labyrinth of halls they went, stopping at the end of one before too many minutes had passed. Fetching up the chart from the holder by the door, the doctor bid her to come find him if she had any additional questions, and that the nurse call button was at Steve's bedside in case anything was needed. A hand dug in his pocket, and he held out his palm, the circle of tungsten sitting in it. They had to remove his wedding ring to splint some fingers on his hand, barely able to get it off without cutting it. It had survived the fight as well, and it would not do to lose it. Final thanks were passed, and she was pushing her way inside, the wedding ring snug in her hand as she went in.

The room given over to her husband's recovery was decently sized, with a sink and counter to one side, and a couch below the window on the other. However, her gaze was riveted to the bed in the center of the room, to the large man nestled in it. Steve was unconscious, his chest rising and falling with constricted breaths. A wrap was around his arm, covering the stitches there, and it appeared that similar treatment was given to his chest, if the lump under his hospital gown was anything to go by. Massive bruising swelled his face, and the jagged split in his lip was barely healing. A heart monitor beeped softly as a respirator whirred, pumping additional air through the tube looped around his head and into his nose. An IV drip was attached as well, and her stomach twisted at the familiarity of it all. The last time Steve had been that broken was two years ago, when she had first found him after the helicarrier disaster. Once again, she was uncertain of her ground, but the reasons behind it were very different. Setting her bag on the floor, she walked over to him, almost in a daze as she looked down at him. Her right hand rested over his, his wedding ring loose around her thumb as she brushed the skin peeking through the brace. Her left rose, started to card tenderly through his hair as he continued to rest, oblivious to her presence.

"Steve," she started after a minute or two, her voice wobbling as she addressed him. Casting her glance over him, then down at her belly, she smirked humorlessly. "You know, I figured the next time you would be in a hospital, it would be me in the bed. And you'd be holding my hand. And it would be a lot happier...overall. Probably not so much in the moment."

Her joke fell flat on her own ears, and inwardly, she mused that it was better that he wasn't able to hear it. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, her breathing made her heart beat erratically, and she did her best to speak with some level of normalcy.

"I should've been here faster, should've...I don't know. There isn't much I can do, anyway, right?" She looked at him, picturing the shake of his head and the calm complacency he would have answered her with on any other day. Another ragged breath, and she mumbled, "Either way, sweetheart, I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Holly would hold true to that promise. She couldn't leave him, couldn't let fate and life tear them apart like that. He had to wake up, get better, live...she needed him. Their son needed him...if she had to be the second Widow Rogers, she didn't know what she would do. The thoughts were spinning out of control, and she could not keep up with them. Her breath was coming in hard and fast now, her mind whirling with all that she had been told, all that she had surmised on her own. The rate of her heart had it beating wildly in her chest, and she felt dizziness swim up into her head. Fumbling, her free hand found the call button, her thumb jabbing down on it furiously as she scrambled to get a hold of herself. By the time the door had opened, she was half-bent at the waist, her head against the bed rail and her limbs shaking.

"Ma'am, is something—" the nurse started, cutting herself off as Holly barely turned to look at her.

"Can't...breathe..." she managed to squeak, a sudden pain ripping through her lower belly and making her cry out. At once, the nurse called out into the hall, requesting assistance. Hands curled over her shoulders, pulling her up. Another rip, and she cried again, the nurse looping her arm around her lower back and forcing her upright. Another person in scrubs came into the room, questions flying around her as she desperately tried to understand what was happening to her.

"...Gotta take her out of..." one of them said, and though she was struggling to even stay upright, she shook her head in denial. No, not now, she couldn't leave him now...

"No, no, don't make me—" The pain stifled her words again, and her hold on Steve's hand was loosened, the contact broken mere moments later. Bracing support went to her back and shoulders, the chaos in the room falling to silence as she was led away from his side.

 **xXxXxXx**

"Hey, kiddo."

The bowed form on the edge of the bed looked up, a hand on her belly and eyes red-rimmed as she looked up. Brown eyes only a few shades darker than her own stared back at her from the doorway, dark hair mussed and his form slumped against the jamb. A newcomer had arrived at her enforced sanctuary, an unexpected visitor, and she found herself pleased to see him. Though the doctors had seemed to want her in exile, that was not to be the case.

"Tony," Holly said, gesturing for Stark to come in. Quickly, he did as he was bid, perching in the chair Bucky had abandoned mere minutes beforehand (the two had passed one another in the hall, curt nods given and no words exchanged, though she was unaware of it). Scooting forward slightly, she dragged the back of her hand under her eyes, attempting to erase the tear tracks still present. "You just come from Rhodey's? How is he?"

Stark nodded, hands folding in his lap.

"Holding steady," he reported, glad that his friend was bearing up under the strain so well. If he were in his position, he would be bitching a lot more, that was for sure. Looking at the toe of his boot, he muttered, "He's scheduled for hip surgery in the morning, coupled with new casting for his leg. Until then, he's in the loving care of morphine."

The younger woman inclined her head, gaze scanning over his face. "You alright?"

Tony shrugged, a rueful cast coming over his features.

"Just the perpetual black eye I seem to get whenever I get involved. That, and this," he confessed, pointing to the butterfly bandages holding the edges of the cut on his cheek together. Lifting a shoulder, he muttered, "Other than those things, just dealing with my creaking old bones settling after bouncing around in the air."

All of which Pepper was thankful to hear, as soon as Rhodey was riding high on the drip and he had a free moment to do so. For his part, he was dismayed that the suits would need another tune-up; evidently shocks would have to be a thing to consider for the future. Canting his head, he conducted his own examination, looking over her and letting his smirk twist into a frown.

"Heard you had a thing of your own, came to check on you," he said, sympathy lining his eyes as he stared down at her belly. "You seem...whole."

A frown grew, and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

"It was a panic attack, with onset Braxton Hicks," she said, discontent lacing her words as her brain went back to those frantic moments. Being forcibly removed from her husband's side, she was taken to another patient room, led through calming exercises to slow her heart rate and bring her back to herself. The contractions did not help the matter, and a muscle relaxer had to be administered. The fear that the baby was coming early was abated, but then it was replaced by embarrassment—which still lingered. She did not know what she was more frustrated with: the fact that she had a panic attack in the first place, or that it brought on false contractions. Wincing, she gasped, "I'm not giving birth today. It just hurt like hell in the meantime."

Assuagement shot through his system, and Tony sank back into his chair.

"I'd say welcome to the club, but nobody likes to be part of an anxiety thing." Raising a hand, he smirked darkly. "Speaking from experience."

"I'm sure," she retorted after snickering dryly. Off his questioning expression, she clarified, "I've yet to meet someone in this whole outfit who doesn't have an anxiety thing."

The smirk turned genuine, and Tony raked a hand through his disheveled locks.

"Heard they tried to get you to go to a hotel to recuperate," he said after a few seconds of quiet. Holly snorted out loud, tipping her head to the left.

"You've heard a lot, for a guy who supposedly just left his friend's bedside," she quipped, only receiving a small smile in response to that. Squaring her shoulders, she braced her hands on the swell of her stomach as her back went ramrod straight. "I'm not leaving. They'll have to throw me out first. And I doubt they'll do that while I'm carrying the little guy."

Tony chuckled at that. "Do what you gotta do, right? Play the pregnancy card; you've only got a little while left to use it."

The ticks of the clock on the wall echoed in the silence as it settled around them, the creak of the bed as her leg swung back forth joining it. Tearing his eyes from the nicks above the far windowsill, he caught her chewing her lip contemplatively, a blush staining her face when he caught her out. Her eyes stared down at her fingers, at the three rings she toyed with (the two on her left hand, and the new one on her thumb, which he knew was not hers). Curiously, he watched as she took in a few breaths, meeting his gaze when she'd gathered her courage again.

"Tony...I...I was told that you helped stop the bleeding," she said, stumbling a little in her speech. The grin on his face fell, and he stared down at his hands.

"Slowed it down for a bit, that's all," he excused his actions. Quirking a brow, he muttered, "No matter how much we like to pretend, none of us are bulletproof. Well, most of us aren't, anyway."

Leaning forward, Holly pressed her palm to his shoulder. "Still, I want to say thank you."

Jerking his head up, his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, a cough barely knocking the lump forming there loose. It wasn't something she should've had to thank him for, in his opinion. Given that he was a loquacious man, moments like this frustrated him. Moments in which his emotions stymied him, choked him to the point of being unable to articulate. Still, he had to try, and he was going to say something.

"I, I couldn't let..." he trailed off, tongue sticking on the words. An exasperated groan tore out of his mouth, and his eyes slammed shut. Her face creased, and she couldn't help but finish it for him.

"Couldn't let your friend die."

His own breathing grew heavy, and his mouth felt dry. Ticks clicked, the clock wound down, and his voice was found again after a full rotation of the minute hand.

"No. I couldn't," he admitted, guilt and sorrow warring with principle and betrayal. In the end, he did not think he could have done any differently. There was too much there, too much to deny or ignore, to discard. However, it did not mean that he was able to let it all go. Verbally, at least. "Despite what he chooses to tell me or not tell me, despite...everything."

Holly sighed through her nose, her hand falling away then. "He didn't tell me, either, until after you were told. For the record. He didn't tell a lot of people until after that happened."

Blinking, Tony was unsure how to process that. Nevertheless, that wasn't to say that he did not have some form of response on hand.

"Yeah, well...it's out there, now." A shoulder lifted, and his lips twisted bitterly. "Can't forget something like that."

"No," the younger woman agreed, irises sparkling from the harsh lights above, "but maybe it's not about forgetting it."

The sentence soaked into the air around them, coloring the seconds as time continued to slip by. Shaking his head, Stark raised himself out of his seat, scratching at the back of his neck. Tipping his head at the door, he strode towards it, pausing with his hand on the knob.

"Um, the night patrols are light," he informed her, his tone deceptively nonchalant. When she did no more than narrow her eyes at him, he licked his lips and sighed. "We could probably get you back into Steve's room without too much of an issue. If I run some interference."

The flash over her irises was difficult to ignore, and as she rose from the bed, she smiled at him. Taking in another deep breath, he held a palm up, compelling her to listen a moment longer.

"And if, if you do want to stay somewhere else, the Tower's still available."

Gratitude bloomed over her features, the red in her eyes deepening as she approached him. Swiping at the growing water in them, she let her free hand fall onto his arm, squeezing in appreciation.

"Thank you. Again," she said, and she was pleased to see the friendliness return to his gaze when he looked her over once more, his own hand patting hers before leading the way out the door. He would get her back to her husband, back to his erstwhile friend, and he would convince the staff to let her stay. It would be done, he resolved inwardly, glancing over his shoulder at the trailing, pregnant shadow behind him and nodding to himself.

 **xXxXxXx**

Lashes fluttered, and slowly, groggily, the lids opened. The blur of the white ceiling tile above was softened in the early morning light, the blue irises clearing slightly with every blink. The scent of antiseptic and sterility hit his nose, the familiar smell having colored many an hour of his childhood and bringing a sense of calm as he realized where he was. The hospital. Which one, he did not know, but that he was in one was undeniable. It was driven home by the fact that he could feel the tubes hooked up around him, connecting him to various machines and such. Weighed down by the scratchy blankets and his own exhaustion, he inhaled, a great burst of air filling him as the scent sank in again.

Steve had been somewhere far better mere moments beforehand. Well, in comparison to the torn streets and steps before the United Nations Assembly Hall. But had he really been there? Was it just a product of his imagination? He couldn't be sure. What he was sure of was that he would not forget it.

 _The cliff's edge. Steve remembered it, as it had featured in his dreams after his awakening from the ice. The cliff, the edge from which the Valkyrie launched, the point from which his life had changed so drastically. The point from where things inevitably were meant to end. Snow gathered and swirled around him, peppering his uniform briefly before the wind flung it away. Strangely enough, there was no noise save for his boots ringing along the ground, the air not frigid, the snow leaving no frozen bite on the exposed skin of his face. Instead, it merely swirled, as though he were caught in a snow-globe, the cavern of darkness looming behind him, and the white beyond stretching before. One step after another propelled him forward, towards the edge, his gloved hands swiping at his uniform as he went. He was wearing the old one, the model from which all the others were based. His shield was strapped to his back, his helmet dangling from his grip. He did not focus on any of that. Instead, he focused upon the sight before him, of the lone fellow standing at the lip of the cut-off, hands linked behind his back and his spine stiffened. Hearing his falling steps, the fellow turned, a smile threatening to bloom on his lips. He looked no older than twenty-five, no older than Steve himself, but there was a wisdom there that betrayed his age, told him that the man had an experience that he did not share in. Strawberry blond hair, distinctly different from the captain's gold, flopped in the fellow's eyes, his matching blue eyes almost flashing as he stared on him. When he got close enough, the other fellow's smile truly grew, lighting up his face and making him appear years younger._

" _Steven," he breathed, the lilt and cadence to his voice recalling the tones of home, the accent of Eire refusing to leave him no matter where he roamed. His strong jaw tipped up, and he held out a hand, gestured him forward. "Come here, boy-o."_

 _Steve's eyes widened, raked over the man as he recognized him. Though the khaki and olive drab uniform were outdated, he knew the eyes, the nose, the tilt of the chin. He passed them on his way through the living room everyday, the framed photograph gracing the wall. He saw them reflecting back in the mirror as well. He gaped, and the other man shook his head after a few moments._

" _What you staring at?" he asked, slight reprimand in his voice. Twitching his fingers, he repeated his forward gesture, his tone brooking no refusal. "Come on."_

" _I...I..." Steve stuttered, utterly befuddled as he did as requested. Crossing the last few feet, he stopped beside the fellow, swallowing hard as the wind stirred around them. Nodding to the mountains and the cliff's edge, the other man crossed his arms over his chest, the action so familiar it took Steve aback._

" _I know, it's confusin'," he commiserated, staring out the layers of clouds, to the ice-capped peaks and keeping his back turned to the darkness. Lifting a shoulder, he muttered, "But it's not all bad. Least it's quiet."_

 _He had a point, and Steve tipped his chin in acknowledgment as he stared at the white landscape, grays and icy blues splintering through. Clearing his throat, it took the captain a few seconds to find his voice again._

" _Am I...?" He could not complete the question, the possible answers already choking and freezing him. Glancing at him out the corner of his eye, the other man sighed and shook his head._

" _No, not yet. Just wanderin'." After all, he knew all too well what death looked like, and Steven was not there yet. He had pushed the limits that day, but he was not beyond the pale. A rueful turn curled his lips, and he faced him fully. "Had to take a look at ya, seein' as how you're here and all. You turned out good, son. Your ma's proud. So am I, for that matter."_

 _Steve's smile mirrored his, and he could not help the snort that coursed out his nose._

" _Just good, Dad?" he wondered, finally addressing the man by the title he never had the chance to use in his lifetime. By the title that belonged to no other man but the khaki-clad soldier beside him._

 _Joseph Rogers let his smile grow dim, wistful, as he looked upon his son._

" _That's all you can hope for, really, when it comes to kids," he confessed, looking up at his son and maintaining is grin. "Hope they'll be good, and hope they'll be happy. It was all I wanted for you, boy-o."_

 _Struck by his father's sincerity, Steve dipped his chin, the fingers of his free hand fidgeting with his belt as he considered his answer._

" _I am." And he was, all things considered. Save for the most recent events, for the obvious mistakes, he was happy. Happy, with far more in his life than he ever thought would be possible. With more than he felt he deserved on most days. A blond brow spiked at him, and his old man reached out, clapping him on the shoulder._

" _Good. I'm glad to see it's not all show," Joseph stated, a bright gleam decorating his gaze. Several minutes passed in which father and son said nothing, both choosing to look out upon the winter landscape that stretched before them, the deadened pines blotting the white snow on the mountains and the sun straining to filter its light through the heavy cloud cover. Questions swirled in Steve's mind, even as he enjoyed the quiet moment, and soon enough, some had forced their way to the surface._

" _Why here? Why now?" he wondered. HYDRA's secret base could not symbolize anything other than something bad, something dark and evil, but it did not feel that way, not as he and his father peered over the lip of the cliffs. The jagged rocks below melted into blackness, and he frowned. For his part, Joseph tilted his head, the brightness in his gaze growing the longer he looked upon his boy. Upon the grown man his boy had become._

" _You know, son," he said, his tone unmistakable and unwavering. It sharply reminded Steve of how his recorded voice sounded, when his speeches had been captured. The tone that held authority and finality was a family trait, evidently, though his father's tended to hold slightly more joviality. Tipping his head towards the cut-off mere feet before them, he murmured. "You're on the edge. Just gotta jump."_

 _Steve shot another glance at Joseph, a long silence descending between them before he managed a small nod. He did know, and he did not wonder how he knew. It would be time, very soon, and he would need to get to work. Several more moments passed as the snow swirled and twirled around them, the flakes dancing and spotting their individual uniforms before fluttering away. Suddenly, Joseph straightened in his stance, as though he had been called to attention. Cocking his head to the left, his smile faded as what sounded like the droning of an airplane seemed to grow louder in the distance. Sighing, he let his head fall back, his shoulders relaxing._

" _Well, it's gettin' on, best you be returnin' home now," he told him, dropping his head down and flicking his gaze at the abyss several feet away. Steve grimaced._

" _It's gonna hurt."_

 _Given what had sent him to the cliff's edge in the first place, he knew for a fact how badly it would affect him the moment he returned to the conscious world. Joseph chuckled wryly, a hand raking through his blond hair before settling on his hip._

" _That is true, but it'll be worth it. You got your wife and boy to look after; you can't stay here." The pain lacing his voice made his son's heart ache, even more so when a hand clasped his arm and squeezed affectionately. The bare hint of a grin returned, and Joseph looked upon his boy one last time. Silent pride radiated from him, and he exhaled sharply. "_ Go n-eirí an t-ádh leat _. I'll give your ma your love."_

 _Taking his words and holding them inside, Steve nodded, gripping his father's arm for the the first and last time for a second or two. With a gentle nudge, he let go, striding up to the edge, stopping at the lip and turning to look at Joseph._

" _Thanks, Dad," he whispered, water pooling in his eyes briefly. "_ Maith thú _._ _"_

 _Joseph's answering salute fell away as he did, the short walk to the cliff's edge causing him to tumble over._

There were no assurances that what he had experienced was real, he told himself as he thought back upon it all. It could have all been in his head. But...Steve had experienced a lot of strange things in his life. He had met with gods, fought against aliens, robots. Who was to say it wasn't real?

All he could say, with certainty, was that his father was right, regardless if he had actually conversed with his spirit or not. And that he was correct as well; it did hurt to come back. His brow furrowed as his eyes shut for a few moments, the ache in his body and the leftover fog in his brain distracting him.

Blinking again, his equilibrium returned to him, little by little. Feet twitched, then hands, legs and arms acting accordingly. The uniform he'd been in was traded for the paper-thin hospital garment swathing him, the cool air of the room penetrating it. The pull of the wounds on his limbs was nothing in comparison to the one in his chest. Steve had thought being gut-shot by Bucky two years ago should've felt worse than this one, but the newest wound made him feel like he could barely breathe, and that the sting would not go away. A flow of oxygen was helping combat that, the thin plastic tubing looping around his face to his nose. His wrist twinged a little as he moved it, a soft brace encompassing it for the time being. Sharp twinges raced from his fingers up his arm, and he raised his other hand a bit to look at the wrapped digits on his left hand. When he shifted his hips, an odd sort of tugging came, and he realized that a catheter had been deemed necessary. Grimacing, he winced deeper as the bruising on his face pricked him, his tongue darting out over the dryness of his lips and hitting the healing split.

He was alive, though, for all that. He was alive.

The heart monitor chirped beside him, content to signal that truth over and over. In between that, his ears picked up the barest snuffle, a low sigh. Inhaling sharply, he turned his head towards the sound, the monitor tracking the increased rhythms as he did so. The room that was given over for his use was a private one, the door closed on the quiet morning activities of the staff beyond. The shades over the glass were drawn, one florescent light throwing the counter along the far wall into detail, as well as the couch beneath the window. What he saw filled him with relief, and he nearly wilted. Holly was curled up on her side, facing him, a pilfered pillow under her head and a borrowed blanket stretched over her. Shoes had been abandoned on the floor, along with a bag set beside them. Somehow she'd bypassed the typical hospital rules for visitors (his guess was that her pregnant state had something to do with it), but he was not complaining in the least. At once, guilt hit him, stealing his breath for a moment. The image of her being told what had happened to him rose in his mind, cutting deep, and he dreaded to think of her fear and concern consuming her. The dark circles he could spot forming under her eyes was an indication, but he did not like it, either way. She had to know, had to know for sure that he was okay. Well, relatively okay.

Clearing his throat, a low groan coursed its way out of his mouth as he pushed himself up on one elbow. The sound made her head twitch, but she did not wake. He had to try again, try harder.

"Holl...Holl..." Steve croaked, despising how broken and raw he sounded. The flash of memory, of Rumlow's arm constricting around his throat, resurfaced, but it was shoved to the back of his mind. Instead, he concentrated on saying his wife's name, a hand scrabbling onto the raised rails of the bed as if he could lever himself out of it and run to her. Stirring at the sound of his voice, her face screwed up as she brought her palm up to scrub at her eyes. Slightly disoriented, she sat up, the borrowed blanket falling low on her lap. Glancing around the room briefly, her eyes landed on him, widening as they registered exactly what she was looking at. Seeing his pained gaze, his clenching hand, she gasped, swinging her legs down and doing the two-part shuffle to get onto her feet and over to him.

"Steve," she breathed, crossing the patch of tile that stood between him and her in mere moments. "Thank God, you're awake."

His struggle stilled, and he relaxed back into the bed, savoring the feel of her fingers brushing through his hair, the press of her lips at his unmarked temple.

"How...how are you feeling?" Holly asked, the hesitation in her voice making his gut twist. Still, he couldn't help but be honest in his answer.

"Like someone tried to punch a hole through my chest repeatedly, doll." Steve raised his splinted hand, tapped gently at the bandages that were shielding his stitches and wincing. Frissons of pain sprinting over his muscles and skin stopped that right away. "Ow."

A corner of her lip curled, but the humor did not reach her eyes. "Close, hon."

Pushing his pain to the back of his mind, he let his gaze run over her instead. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart," she replied, the sincerity in his inquiry impressed upon her heart. His palm reached out, giving her arm a squeeze before it settled on the swell of her belly.

"And the baby?"

Before she could say a word, a hard thump rebounded in his palm, their son asserting his presence in no uncertain terms. Focused on that, Steve did not see the hard swallow bobbing in Holly's throat. Clearing it, she took a shaky breath before responding.

"He's alright, too," she stated quietly. Panic attack and false contractions aside, he was just fine. The doctor had given her a cursory check when she'd calmed, and determined that there was nothing to worry about. Nothing extra to worry about, at least. Still, she decided it would be better to not speak about it. Dwelling on it would do no good, and Steve would take the blame upon his shoulders. She would tell him later, when he wasn't merely struggling to sit up properly. And after she scheduled yet another appointment with the therapist to discuss the issue. Laying her hand over his, she reaffirmed, "We're both good."

His eyes darted to the ring on her thumb, his brow furrowing as he realized it was his wedding ring. Well, at least it was safe, and not lost after they'd taped up his fingers. Another kick hit his palm, and he let out a low breath.

"Good," Steve responded, his tone turning thoughtful as the word tumbled over his tongue. The stiffness in his back nagged at him, and he wriggled a bit, trying to find some decent leverage to alleviate the ache. Holly, noticing this, pressed a palm to his shoulder, forcing him to stop.

"Steve, don't," she reprimanded him lightly, wedging her fingers between him and the bedding for a moment. Carefully, she plucked loose the incline controls for the bed, pushing it into his hand with a watery grin. "These exist for a reason."

Thumbing the controls, the incline of the bed and his person took the pressure away bit by bit, and he sighed in relief. The sound of running water met his ears, and he glanced over in time to see Holly filling a plastic cup filched from the overhead cupboard. Crossing back to him, she put it in his braced hand, helping guide it to his lips. Cool relief coursed down his throat, and he drained the cup dry with her aid. When he finished with that, she grabbed a visitor's chair from the other side of the room, dragging it over and sitting down beside him. After making sure it didn't interfere with the equipment he was still hooked up to in any capacity, of course. Gingerly, she slipped her palm under his, the cloth brace ignored by them both as he held her hand.

"Do you need anything else?" she wondered, a glance cast at the closed door. At some point, they would have to alert the nurses and doctors of his consciousness, to learn what the potential prognosis would be in regards to his recovery. Steve shook his head, leaning back into his pillow.

"Just you," he murmured, the dullness in his blue eyes fading somewhat. Shifting against the mattress, he let out a small hiss, and groaned. "Painkillers would be nice, too."

"You mean painkillers that will last longer than five minutes in your system, right?" She shared a sardonic grin with him before raising his hand to her lips. The gentle caress made his grin more genuine, but it was over all too quickly. Keeping a hold on his fingers, she told him, "Mom and Dad are worried sick about you. Been calling me on and off for hours for progress reports."

Digging into her pocket, she turned on her cellphone, holding it up for him to see. The withering battery unable to hide the multiple notifications on the screen, the given and returned calls shown next.

"Same with my sister and Hank."

The outpouring of affection and concern from her family (his family, too, he reminded himself) still took him aback somewhat. The acceptance warmed his heart after going so long without it, and truthfully, he did not always know how to handle it, even now. So he merely let the corner of his mouth curl, and he said the first thing that came to mind.

"Hank, too?" He chuckled a little, wanting to play off his pain as best he could. "Wow, I really must be in a state if he's in a tizzy."

Any vestiges of humor were wiped from Holly's face, and Steve squirmed a little. A long moment passed in which she merely looked at him, all the emotion in her eyes overwhelming them both in the silence. Dropping the phone onto his blanket, she blew out a breath, her grip tightening around his.

"You scared the shit outta me," she whispered, and his heart thudded hard in his chest.

"I know, I know. Scared me, too," he confessed, the remembered spikes of fear under his hurt surfacing then. Holding her gaze, he willed her to see the truth in his words as he spoke. "Believe me, I wasn't trying to...it wasn't on purpose."

She snorted. "I certainly hope not. I'd kick the crap out of you myself if I thought so."

A bare smile curled his lips, but it faded as soon as she asked her next question.

"What happened?"

Holly knew him, knew his attitude and personality very well. The caliber of his injury (absolutely no puns or jokes intended on that score) was close, too close for it to be written off as mere chance. Whatever had passed between him and the bastard who'd shot him, it was enough to draw him in, take the fight to the level it had reached. Steve's face was drained of all humor, the glint in his gaze turning icy as his features became stony. He gritted his teeth for several seconds, the loose fingers of his splinted hand curling into the blanket.

"He threatened you. And him," he told her eventually, eyes flicking down to her belly and a harsh exhale coming out of his nose. She closed her eyes, a frown deepening as he continued, "Said that he would come after you next, when he was done. There was no way I could just let him think he could do that. He caught me at a bad time, used it, and...then, _pop-pop_."

The imitation of gunshots made her flinch, but she did not stop him from speaking.

"He was down, and so was I. For awhile, anyway. If he hadn't been..." Steve trailed off, and darkness flooded his features, his chest heaving as he took in harsh breaths. "I would've taken his head off myself, regardless of the pain."

Her jaw twitched, her fingers shifting under his grip. "And then you really might have died, from pushing yourself so hard."

Steve set his shoulders, and he did not drop his gaze or back down. "I wouldn't do any less, if it meant you and our boy were safe."

A beat, then two, and Holly pushed herself out of her chair. Leaning awkwardly over the bed rail, she braced her hand by his head, bending so that she could kiss him. Though it was not hard enough to open the split in his lip, it was firm, an outpouring of all her affection and fear for him descending from her mouth to his. He returned it stroke for stroke, having to pull away to catch his breath. His splinted fingers had found their way to her shoulder, small circles rubbed in by the free ones as she rested her forehead against his.

"I'm glad you didn't," she said, the tiniest quaver under the words. Closing his eyes, the tip of his nose brushed hers. Stray tears dropped down his cheeks, but he did not know if they were hers, or his own.

"Me, too, Princess."

The giggle at the back of her throat was small, but undeniable. "Nerfherder."

A final buss danced over his lips, and then she was drawing back, the pads of her fingers brushing the tears away from both their faces. When she was done with that, she reached across him, picking up the abandoned call button from its perch and pressing it.

"What are you doing?" he asked, spiking an eyebrow despite the pull it had on the shiner. Dropping the device, she sat back down in her chair, scooting it closer still and taking his hand in hers again.

"Calling in the nurse. I can already see the questions circling in your head, particularly the one about how long you'll have to stay here." Catching the impressed expression on his face, she snickered. "You seemed surprised; I do know you, hon."

Chuckling, he tipped his chin up. "Maybe a little too well."

"I disagree. Well, on certain parts, I disagree. With others, you might be right," she amended. His eyebrow raised again, and she smirked at him. "Bathroom habits come to mind."

Steve snorted outright at that, ignoring the rising commotion in the hall in favor of gracing his wife with a faux biting glare.

"Believe me, doll, you ain't all sunshine and roses yourself in that department."

Holly took no offense to his words whatsoever, instead leaning back into her chair and resting a hand on her belly.

"I don't think I ever claimed to be," she retorted, a weak laugh coming out of him just as the door opened. The nurse spilled in with the doctor, and as they showed enthusiasm for his alertness, Steve maintained his small grin, his wife's hand in his and the danger finally starting to pass.

* * *

 **A/N:**...Steve's not dead. You can put away your torches and your pitchforks now!

Wow...where will they all go from here? Well, you'll definitely find out over the next few chapters, so you'll want to hang tight for those.

Panic attacks can cause Braxton Hicks contractions, just saying. And also, I am not a doctor and therefore have no real experience with gunshot wounds (thank goodness). So, even if it doesn't appear to be 100% kosher, I do hope you'll suspend your disbelief for that, at least a little.

The two Irish phrases came from an Irish blessings website, and are as follows (if incorrect, I'm sorry):  
" _Go n-eir_ _í_ _an t-_ _á_ _dh leat."-_ Good luck to you. Literally, 'that luck may rise with you.'  
" _Maith th_ _ú."-_ Good on you.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, New York-Presbyterian Hospitals and their affiliates, _Star Wars_ , etc.)

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	28. Chapter 28

Peter Parker waited at the front desk, hands balling nervously in his pockets as he waited for the orderly to complete her call. Idly, he reached up to scratch at the back of his neck, dutifully avoiding touching his eye. Due to his exertions during the United Nations crisis, he obtained a black eye, the bruise spreading from brow to cheekbone (a sucker punch that one of the armed soldiers managed to land when his fellow had distracted the boy). As the worst of his injuries, he had been told to leave it be, under no uncertain terms. He just wished it would heal, already; it was bad enough when his classmates stared at it—Miles, one of the guys in his accelerated science course, had gawked and questions as to what happened spilled over while they were attempting a lab experiment. Though he could be fobbed off with an excuse of being jumped outside of the subway over the weekend, Peter didn't think that the staff at New York-Presbyterian could do the same. The sooner he could be granted visiting access, the better.

After the last of the soldiers were being rounded up and detained, he had been directed to go home. At first, he had refused, too intent on finding the captain again and discovering his condition to do so. However, both Tony and Bucky were adamant about his returning home; there was nothing he could do for the captain, unless he happened to excel in surgery as well as computer building (Tony's words), and it would serve his interests better to let it be handled by professionals (Bucky's admonishments). Chagrined, he accepted their conditions, Mr. Lang being deputized to take him to Queens as soon as possible. After taking time to change—Peter and Scott had gone to the Tower, the boy finding his clothes and the man availing himself to Stark Industries-branded sweats and a jacket taken from employee storage—they'd boarded the train, the pandemonium of the city bleeding off the farther away from the epicenter they got. Aunt May had greeted them at the door, a curt thank-you given to Mr. Lang before she dragged her young nephew into the house. Scott was the lucky one, able to bail out immediately and avoid his aunt's wrath. Still, even after she berated him for not coming home as she had asked, for risking his neck as he had, she embraced him, hard squeezes of her arms punctuating that he dare not do something like that again before she fetched him an icepack from the freezer.

The Monday after the attack, May had called the school, a sick day granted to help take time to heal and recollect himself. That Tuesday, though, he had gone back, and he had struck a deal with his aunt so that he could go searching for the hurt captain. His location had not been divulged to the public; indeed, the general consensus was that the Avengers were either recuperating outside of the city, or had come through unscathed. He knew for a fact that was not true, and so he had emailed Tony for details. The single hospital name, the one on the Lower East Side, had been sent back, and he was determined to follow through with his original intent.

The orderly finally ended the call, passing along the word that he was granted permission to see the patient up on the third floor. May, who had accompanied him inside, nodded at that, urging him to go and reiterating that she would be waiting for him to return. Promising to not take too long, he followed a nurse to the correct floor, her directions bringing him to a room at the end of a hall. Some SHIELD agents were posted along the floor, radios and comms crackling as he passed by. His nerves spiked as the nurse told him to use the call button in case there was anything either of them needed. Swallowing hard, he knocked at the panel, the voice within beckoning for him to come in shortly afterward. Wary of all the people in the hall watching him, he quickly did so. Shutting the door behind him, he inhaled sharply. Captain Rogers was upright, the hospital bed inclined to support him. The older man had a bruise over his eye as well, though the swelling and discoloration were not quite at his level. The obvious split in his lip was nearly healed, as well as the cut or two along the fellow's jaw. A thick bandage was wrapped around his arm, and beneath his issued t-shirt, the clear outline of another was wrapped around his chest. Wires trailed to a heart monitor off to the side, and IV drip connected to him as well. His hands rested in his lap, one wrist encased in a cloth brace and the left hand splinted, a book perched beneath them. Despite the evident fatigue and the minor winces in pain as he adjusted in his seat, the captain no longer appeared to be on death's door. Something inside Peter relaxed, even as a bitter kick accompanied it.

"Hello, Peter," the captain greeted him, a wan smile coming to his lips. Attempting to return it, the teenager approached him slowly, a hand waving superfluously.

"Captain Rogers, I—" he started, only to be cut off by the older man's gesturing palm.

"I think by this point you've earned the right to call me Steve, kid," he intoned, blue eyes glinting as he motioned for him to sit in the nearby visitor's chair. Hastily, the boy took the seat, discreetly wiping his palms along the sides of his jeans. A part of him was wondering if perhaps he should not have presumed to go there; after all, the captain—Steve—was healing, and probably did not want to be bothered by him. By the kid who had caused some significant trouble in the last few weeks. However, when the blond man did no more than grin at him and tap a thumb along the spine of his book (a hardcover copy of _Dracula_ ), he eased himself into calm, relaxing a bit in his chair.

"Steve. Um, hi," he returned belatedly, picking at the outside seam of his pants. Lifting a shoulder, he murmured, "I hope you don't mind me just barging in like this. Wanted to know how you were."

Steve shook his head at that. "Don't mind at all. It breaks up the monotony of being here. I'm sore, stitched up, but otherwise alright. How are you?"

Unconsciously, Peter reached up, a fingertip trailing under the edge of the shiner. That was a good question, one that he wasn't sure he really knew the answer to. But he did have an answer to give, at least verbally.

"I'm, I'm fine," he tried to reassure the older man. Off the spiking eyebrow and curious glance, he shrugged again. Dropping his gaze to the rail of the bed, he muttered, "You know, except for..."

The captain's brow furrowed, and his back stiffened a bit. "What?"

Caught out, it took Peter a few swallows and picking at the creases in his clothes before he could answer properly.

"Nightmares. Been having them since..." he trailed off, sniffing a little as a rush of red bloomed on his face. Hesitantly, he raised his eyes again, looking directly at the man in the bed and inhaling deeply. "And seeing what happened to you, it reminded me of, well..."

Steve felt a flush of sorrow rush through him. He could well imagine the cause of the nightmares. Nightmares no fifteen-year-old should be having, but was according to his own word (and the dark circle like a second bruise under his uninjured eye).

"Tony told me about your uncle's passing," he murmured softly, causing the boy to look away. It had come as part of his explanation of Peter's presence at the trials, but he had not had the chance to express his sympathy until then. "I'm sorry."

Peter shrugged, stared down at his shoes. "Wasn't your fault."

For a long moment, blue eyes latched onto the bowed form of the teenager, observing and spotting things that were not stated, not spoken of.

"It wasn't yours, either." A cut-off scoff was the reply, and Steve waited until he looked up again. "Son, I know what guilt looks like. I know what it's like to feel as though you should've acted faster, differently, to things you had no control over."

Unable to refute that, unwilling to doubt that he spoke the truth, it still took the teenager some time before he could think of something else to say.

"My aunt says this has all reopened old wounds or something, wants me to see a therapist," he confessed, raking a hand through his hair. A wry snort shot out of him, and he elaborated, "Well, after she was done screaming about what I'd done in the first place."

"She's just worried for you. For good reason," Steve reminded him, a sigh pouring out of his nose. Leaning back into the pillow behind him, he cast a rueful glance up at the ceiling, and his mouth curved sardonically. "I imagine she didn't have anything better to say about us letting you stay, either."

"No, but she's chilled out since then. Enough to drive me around to see you guys. And after I promised to think about therapy," Peter said, the terms and conditions of his arrival laid bare. Wrapping his arms around his torso, he couldn't help the minor edge of defiance in his tone, the hunch of his back. "I don't, I don't want to, but I know I should."

The captain inclined his head; that was something else he was all too familiar with. "It's tough, but at least it's more acceptable to see one nowadays. And it does help."

The boy's dark eyes flew up, meeting his steady gaze with surprise.

"You?"

Steve let his lips curve again, his head tilting to the left.

"Yep. It's almost a requirement when you're involved with this team, in any capacity," he jested, inviting the teen to see the humor in the truth. A form of relief trickled through him when the kid smirked back. "Tony still sees his, too, I think. It's like going to any other doctor, Peter. It helps you heal."

Peter let his frustration show, the frustration that had been mounting since his aunt first suggested the idea. His frustration, and his fear.

"But who could I talk to that won't, that won't...tell everyone who I am?" he asked, his voice almost dropping to a whisper on the last words. Ah, the crux of the matter had come to light: seeking treatment would expose him, expose parts of his life that he felt he could not afford to expose. Steve could understand his reticence, knowing full well that the teen was not in any way ready to unmask himself as the Spider-Man. It was all too new, still, and he was still adjusting to his new status and responsibilities. Maybe a few years down the road, he would be comfortable enough to let the fear go, but it was unlikely that such a thing would happen. While therapists were required to abide by doctor-patient confidentiality, there weren't many that could handle taking on a patient with abilities and issues such as the ones Peter had.

That wasn't to say there weren't any out there, though.

"It depends. If you wants someone close to home, then I would recommend seeing if Tony's doctor could take you on as well. Mine, too; he has an office in Midtown now," Steve said, considering the choices at hand for the young man. Clicking his tongue, he also ventured, "Or, you can talk to Maria Hill; she can connect you with the department at the base, set up video sessions with one of the therapists there. Those are a few options."

A full minute passed, the visible wrestle with his feeling obvious on Peter's face as he mulled over all that the captain had intimated. Then, after closing his eyes and taking a shaky breath, he reached into his pocket, tapping at his smartphone and pulling up an application. Turning it and holding the screen out towards the older man, he could see the opened file to attach a new contact there.

"Okay," Peter conceded. "What's Ms. Hill's number again?"

Taking the proffered phone, Captain Rogers punched in the number for him, the new contact file made and ready for when he was willing to use it. He did not promise to set up any appointments immediately, but he would go over the choices with his aunt first. Likely, he would have to wait until he at least back on an even keel with his schoolwork. The end of the year was coming up, and he didn't know if he could take the time in between projects and papers to do so. The captain lightly ribbed him for being able to accommodate his other extracurriculars, wondering how he would be able to fit crime-fighting in there as well. The younger man smirked, going on to explain how he intended to catch up on all that during the summer. Between the two, it was plotted out that he would come up to the base for a week, do another training reassessment and establish a firmer schedule around his times at the Tower to do so. Several minutes passed, and then the door was creaking open again. Wondering if a nurse had decided his visiting time was up, the teenager turned, his wariness deflating as soon as he saw the woman poking her head through the door.

"Am I interrupting? Because I can come back later," Holly Rogers said, her smile growing as her gaze flicked between the two males. It had been a long time since she'd last seen Peter, and despite the black eye, he was looking okay. Spotting the curious glance being shot at his injury, the younger man cleared his throat, looking for a way to circumvent the eventual line of questioning.

"No, of course not. Hi, Missus Rogers," Peter started, flapping his hand and bidding her to come in. Steve grinned, a hello passed to his wife as she entered the room fully, one arm crooked behind her back. Rising from the chair, Peter felt his brown eyes widen as they strayed to her belly. "Woah! You're...I mean, I heard the news, but I mean..."

Chuckling, Holly laid her free hand on the prominent swell.

"But it's obvious, I know," she stated, striding towards the boy as he fidgeted with the phone in his hands. Patting his shoulder, she continued, "It's good to see you, Peter."

Shyly, Peter smiled back at her, the strain in it unnoticed as he tapped her fingers with his.

"Yeah, um, it's good to see you, too."

"Parker's here to check up on me, via Tony's requests," the captain told her smoothly, not batting an eye as he covered up for the young man's presence.

Her eyebrows inclined at that, and she snickered. "Because he doesn't call you enough?"

"He wanted something more along the lines of in-person verification," he explained, watching as she strolled over to the rolling tray and placed the bag she had been hiding behind her back upon it. As she pivoted away, Peter darted a glance to the older man, to his wife and then back again. Minutely, Steve shook his head; for the moment, his secret was safe. Clearing his throat, the captain sat up a bit more, hands splaying over his book as he took note of the bag. "Please tell me you brought something edible with you."

Laughing outright at his eagerness, Holly reached into it, withdrawing a family-sized bag of M&M's.

"Contraband for the prisoner," she affirmed, sliding it back in with the rest of the goodies she'd brought. Scratching the back of his neck again, the teenager took that as his silent cue to leave, and began edging towards the door. He'd been there for nearly an hour by that point, and he did not want to intrude on any private time the captain would want with his wife. As he stepped back, Holly held up a preemptive hand. "You don't have to go, Peter."

"Thanks, but I've gotta head out," he said, his head tipping towards the door. "My aunt's waiting for me, gotta run a few more errands before I, um, report in."

His hand rested on the handle, and he paused before opening it, looking back at the pair.

"Listen, I know it's gonna be awhile, but if you want, I'd be happy to do some six month and one year pictures for the baby," he offered, a grateful smile curving his lips. It wasn't much, but it was the least he felt he could do for them. "No charge."

Holly shared a look with her husband, thoughtfulness overtaking her expression. "That's sweet of you. We'll let you know."

Steve nodded, the gleam in his eyes softening somewhat. "Take care of yourself, kid."

Taking the meaning in his words, Peter nodded once. "I will. Bye."

Once the door snapped shut behind him, and he was truly out of earshot, Holly turned to look at Steve.

"Is he okay?" she asked, gaze flicking towards the hall and back. It was impossible not to notice the tiredness in the young man's form, let alone the clearly visible injury on his face. Steve chewed the inside of his lip for a second, rubbing a thumb along the cover of his book.

"He will be. Eventually," he replied, glancing up at her. Lifting a shoulder (carefully, so as not to disturb his own wounds), he went on, "Beyond that, can't say much else without his consent."

Curious and suspicious as she was, Holly could see the unyielding glint in her husband's gaze, and for the moment, she chose to let the matter drop.

"Fair enough."

He dipped his chin, his avid blue gaze running over her. Once again, her back was to him, and she was shuffling around in the plastic grocery bag, the minute rip and tear of something within followed by a light, metallic clink. The last few days, they had been almost inseparable, with her at his side for as long as the visitor hours allowed her to be. Until she was required to leave, spending her nights at the Tower and recovering for the next day. Still, that hadn't erased the tightening in his gut, the examination of her form when she wasn't aware of it. He was being taken care of, but he was more worried for her.

"And are you?" he asked, the concern within not masked in the least. Her shoulders tightened almost immediately, and her shuffling stilled.

"I'm fine, thanks." Looking at him over her shoulder, her features hardened a little. "I'm not going to melt into a puddle of mush."

Slightly abashed, he muttered, "I know, but—"

His explanation was stopped as Holly pivoted to face him again, one hand landing on the rail of the bed and the other cupping the air.

"Steve, I get it. But you need to stop," she said plaintively, shaking her head. It had been hard enough, confessing what had happened right after she'd been brought to him, but it was not as difficult as dealing with the fall-out. In true Rogers fashion, Steve had taken the news as a sign that he was doing poorly, that he had not protected her to the fullest extent of his abilities. He'd started watching her like a hawk, and would do everything in his power to make certain she was alright, even if he could nothing physically. On certain levels, he'd indicated, he could be blamed for bringing the overwhelming state on her in the first place, but she was not having any of that argument. Groaning, she reached out, framing his face with her hands, urging him to look at her and listen. "I had the panic attack; it was me, all me. Yes, I was scared witless by what happened, and yes, it got the better of me, but it wasn't something you did to me. It wasn't your fault. Okay?"

His face creased, and she knew he was winding up to speak, to argue his point again. However, it was something that had been labored over enough for the time being. She had already scheduled an appointment to speak with the therapist, and she did not want her husband to blame himself anymore. Bending, she softened her words with a kiss, pressing against his lips long enough to feel him start to melt into the embrace. Once he'd relaxed, she pulled away, the pads of her fingers brushing along his cheek and her dark eyes staring in his.

"Say it," Holly said, her tone low and brooking no refusal. Steve's shoulders tensed up again, and his brow furrowed. Inhaling deeply, he let it out slowly through his nose, blinking a few times before he opened his mouth.

"It's not my fault."

One more kiss, and she stepped back, her hands falling away from him.

"Good," she breathed, bracing against the arm of the visitor's chair and plunking down into it as gracefully as possible. "Now, if you'd just believe it, that would be even better."

Steve shot her a glare. "Holly."

She held up a hand, palm out in a gesture of surrender.

"I know, I gotta pick and choose my battles," she muttered, shaking her head. Resolutely, she squared her shoulders, gripping the rolling tray and pulling it closer to the bed. Nodding to the bag of foodstuffs she'd smuggled in, she said, "Meanwhile, I brought you treats; you should be focusing on that."

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling for a moment (and failing to hide the edge of amusement in them as he did so), he placed his book on the tray, snatching up the bag and going through it. The M&M's were plopped into his lap, followed by a few other candy boxes. A new sketchbook had come out as well, along with a cheap mechanical pencil and graphite for it ("I couldn't get over to that specialty art store you like here; traffic was insane today. Had to settle for Target," she explained sheepishly, while he merely tutted and exclaimed that he appreciated it nonetheless). Amidst the other snack that had come to hand, a thin chain tangled around his fingers. Pulling it out, he noticed the bar-code holder had been removed, and his wedding ring had been put on it. With his left hand still mostly taped up, she figured it was the best way for him to still be able to wear it. The small grin on his lips faded as she helped him loop it around his neck. He recognized the treats for what they were, and he sighed.

"You go back tomorrow, right?" Steve asked, trying to sound nonchalant while a little sadness crept into his eyes. Catching it, Holly coughed once.

"I'm all out of clean clothes here, hon," she joked, earning the barest smirk in response. Puffing out a breath, she told him, "Yeah, I'll be catching a jet back with Maria after stopping here first. She wants to get everything back in order, starting with the base's operations. I've gotta go if I want to keep my job. And our house."

The base had been closed for the last few days, which had afforded Holly the time to be with her husband. However, with a new medical bill to cover, and the anticipation of another in two months' time along with their other payments, she could not spend any more time away. She would be granted a half-day, like everyone else, when she returned the next day, but she would have to go back to full-time after that.

"When you put it that way," he replied, doing his best to match her joking tenor. Wistfully, he looked at her and then to the door. "Wish I could go with you."

Her expression mirrored his. "I do, too. But you're still healing. And you've gotta prove that you can go more than a day without popping your stitches."

A frown graced his mouth; that had only happened once, when he was attempting to reach out to her after he'd first woken up. It had been a pain to get the stitching redone, and he did not intend on having it happen again. Shifting his torso, he pointedly arched an eyebrow at her.

"So far, so good."

Canting her head at that, she went on to assure him, "At least you'll be transferred to the base's hospital bay by next Friday, no matter what."

"It's sad, but I'll be glad when that happens," he confided, glancing at the hospital room once more. "I'll be closer, and then it should only be another week or so until I'm out."

She grinned, reaching out where the blanket had fallen away and tweaking the band of the soft pants that had been given to him.

"Bet you're looking forward to wearing your own clothes again."

Grasping her hand, he slotted their fingers together as best he could, thumb brushing awkwardly against her skin due to the brace.

"More like I'm looking forward to going home, sleeping in my bed with my wife," he admitted. Though the prognosis for his recovery looked good, with three weeks given as the maximum recovery time, it was quite awhile to be away from home. Away from her. Tipping her chin, she brought his hand up with hers on the rail, leaning forward and pecking his fingertips.

"Me, too," Holly declared. "Soon, though."

"Soon," Steve concurred, squeezing her hand once before diving into the pile of treats, determining which to dig into first. It wasn't for very long, and in the meantime, they would endure.

 **xXxXxXx**

The Wednesday after the U.N. attack, Sam Wilson was starting to feel more like himself. The initial treatment of his collarbone break did not require extensive surgery, and so he was discharged from the hospital within two days (after the danger of his concussion had passed). It would be a sling and wrapping for six weeks, and then some time spent in physical therapy, but all things considered, he'd gotten out of the ordeal relatively decently. In comparison to others. With his granted leave, he returned to the hospital to check on his friends, was shocked at the wear and tear on both captain and colonel. He really had come out luckier than he supposed; at least he wasn't going for hip surgery, or to replace a broken femur. There weren't ribs to repair or muscles to stitch up on his body. He was not pleased to be out of the game for what he had, but it could have been worse.

Well, physically, anyway. Mentally, he was still thrown for a loop. After all, he could hardly find a better way to describe the state of his mind after being found in the rubble by his...girlfriend? Ex? Friend with benefits? Either way, Kay had found him, had sat with him until his mother was informed of his condition. Though his brain was rattled and jarred, he did remember that she promised to speak with him, really talk to him about everything that had gone down between them. He was sure he wasn't imagining it; he didn't think he could imagine the sincerity in her eyes when she swore that she would do so. However, when he was released from the care of the doctors, she was nowhere to be found. Granted, he did understand that it was unfair to expect her to drop everything for him; after all, she still had her job to do, reports to make on the findings after extracting people from the wreckage of the U.N. halls.

He just did not think it would take her so long. Hell, he would've settled for a phone call. After visiting with Steve (who was down due to his wife returning home without him), he had resolved to take matters into his own hands, his phone coming into his free palm as he exited the front doors. Shortly, though, he realized that was unnecessary.

For there Kay was, blue hair loose around her shoulders and her dark eyes brightening upon seeing him. She had been leaning languidly against a car, a sedan she'd no doubt rented for her time in the city. Pushing herself off the vehicle, she approached him slowly, as if she feared he would be spooked and scamper away before she got too close.

"I spoke with your mom," she offered by way of an explanation. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she nodded to the hospital behind him. "She said I could find you here. Do you want a ride back home?"

Given that his only other option at that point was a cab or the bus, he would rather brave the streets of New York with her. Despite the potential awkwardness. Besides, if he wanted answers, the source was before him.

"Uh, sure," he said aloud. Following her lead, he stepped around the passenger side, sliding in carefully. Clearing his throat, he murmured, "Thank you."

"No problem," she returned, putting the car into drive and pulling away from the curb (and out of the drop-off zone before security and the nurses could berate her for it). The air in the car was tense as they migrated up from the Lower East Side, a path being slowly plotted to the borough of Harlem where his mother resided and where he would be staying for the remainder of the week. Quiet permeated the cab, save for the honking and occasional screams of the other drivers around them; not even the music was playing. Sam had alternated between staring out the window and fidgeting with the hem of his jeans with his good hand. At intervals, Kay tapped her fingers along the wheel, her lip bitten on and off as they moved from one street to the next.

"Why did you—" he started, unable to take the silence anymore.

"So I—" she spoke over him, evidently not able to stew any longer, either. Glancing at each other, they breathed out awkward chuckles.

"Ladies first," he intoned, nodding for her to begin whenever she was ready. It took maneuvering between a cab and a Prius with an Uber sticker before she found her courage to speak again.

"You're probably wondering why I'm doing this. After a month of not talking to you."

His expression was blank, but he could not restrain himself from answering sardonically.

"The thought had crossed my mind."

Guiltily, she sighed, scrubbing a palm over her brow before continuing.

"I had a lot to think about. About you, and us...I was so used to being one way, having to live my life according to one set of rules. Which worked, but I wasn't ever really happy with it," she did her best to explain, both of them knowing full well that she was skimming quite a bit. However, they weren't there to rehash her years spent in secret services, forcing herself to abide by a code that merely allowed her to survive as ranks and positions changed, as agencies morphed and she had to remain the same. Snorting, she muttered, "I barely had any friends, because of it, let alone what we have."

The last part was spoken with a sort of broken inflection, as if she were afraid to even allude to the fact that they might not actually have anything anymore. It made Sam flinch, and his heart constricted in his chest. At a red light, she took her eyes away from the road, met his eye-line squarely.

"But that's changed so much over the last year, without me realizing it until you threw down the ultimatum."

Sam, who had been picking at the line of his sling, held up a finger to pause her.

"I just said we needed a break to think. I didn't make you choose one way or another," he stated simply, shrugging his good shoulder when she glanced over at him. "Just saying."

A choked chuckle rumbled in her throat, and she swallowed against the dryness cropping up.

"Fair point. Truth was, it scared me," she confessed, noting his furrowed brow and shrugging. The red light turned green, and traffic lurched forward. Her attention grabbed, she pressed lightly on the gas as she chided herself, "Stupid as that sounds, but it's true. Going public, letting people really know, it could mean a lot of things. Some good, and some bad. I mean, you know how bad it can get."

Many examples flashed through his mind, of what he'd heard through the grapevine about Holly's panic attack when she went to Steve, of the rumors swirling yet again about the strain in Stark and Pepper Potts' relationship. He couldn't deny that there were unpleasant aspects of publicly being a couple, when one was fodder for the rumor mill.

"I didn't know if I could live like that," Kay nearly whispered, finally crossing the invisible border that separated Manhattan from Harlem as she did so. Another minute of silence passed between them, and Sam exhaled sharply.

"So?"

Her gaze turned from the street back to him, and he could see the deep hurt that was being suppressed within.

"I realized what scared me more was losing you. Losing you, and not being able to..." she trailed off, her voice catching. Coughing, she negotiated a left turn, her free hand coming up to rake through her hair. Sternly, she pushed herself to finish her speech. "It's like you said: I already was there, I just wasn't being honest about it. I think it's about time to be honest. I love you, Sam, and I want it all. It won't be easy, to let go of behavior that I've had drilled into me for almost eleven years. But...I would rather try, and not let the outside world dictate my life."

Emotions rushed through him then, so hard and fast that he could not pinpoint a single one. Tongue-tied, he gaped at her as she pulled her car along familiar streets, edging ever-closer to his mother's house. She swallowed again, audibly that time.

"I know I probably left it too late, not saying this until after you got hurt, and you've probably realized that you'd be better off without the uncertainty. If you need the time to think about it, you can have it. As much as you want." Here she paused, drawing in a deep breath as if to steady herself. "And if, if it is too late, then I'll just drop you off at home, and that'll be it."

Flashing a strained smile at him, it slipped off her lips the longer he sat there, eyes latching onto his knees and his jaw clenching. Silence hovered once again, and her sad sigh was muffled by her palm as she pretended to scratch at the corner of her mouth. Soon enough, the sedan pulled onto the correct street, brownstones lining both sides. A few of the younger kids were playing on their stoops, school having ended roughly an hour beforehand. An open parking spot just large enough for her to pull into was right in front of his mother's home, and she swiftly slid the vehicle into it. Mutely, she exited the car when he did, walking him up the front steps. She slid her hands into the pockets of her jacket, unable to say anything as he stalled there, palm on the doorknob and his gaze boring into her. Once, twice, she coughed, and she pulled herself to her full height, looking at him directly. The shimmer of tears was laced beneath her irises, but she managed to keep a hold on her emotions.

"Right, so, I guess this is good-bye," Kay said, giving him one last chance to say something. When all she got was a nod, she sniffed, her shoulders moving jerkily as she stepped back. Dejection and fury with herself ripped through her as she pivoted, the steps of the stoop hard under her boots as she started to walk away. She had waited too long, waited until things had become too dire and loaded to confront the truth. She had no one to blame but herself, her mind muttered mutinously, and she could only feel her shoulders slump all the more.

"You were kind of right," Sam suddenly said, his voice stopping her in her tracks. Half-turning back to him, her gaze tracked him as he followed her down to the last couple of steps. His hand slid up her arm, onto her shoulder, the heat of his palm muted by the jacket she wore. Soon enough, he was tipping her chin up slightly, lids drooping as warmth crawled through her. "You took your time, but you weren't too late."

Hope flooded her veins then, cautious hope filling her as she leaned into him.

"Sam," she breathed, eyes closing as he leaned down and brushed his lips over hers. The lost days, weeks, seemed to vanish as he kissed her, as she met his passionate entreaty measure for measure. The misappropriated tears fell, traces of salt on their lips as they opened up to one another. Despite the shots of pain from his injury, Sam couldn't hold her close enough, couldn't get enough of her taste, her mouth. He'd missed her so much, and given the way she was meeting him fully, she had, too. Quite a lot, apparently, as her tongue swiped at his lower lip, begging for entrance. Forced apart to catch their breath a few moments later, he braced his forehead to hers, palms the back of her neck as her hands clenched at his waist. It would not be perfect, but they could start over, start again. And it could happen there, no matter who knew it.

"As romantic as the stoop is, you two should probably come inside," a mellow, mature-sounding voice broke through their haze, and both of them looked up. An older woman had come out of the house, silver-threaded black curls ringing her face and a deep purple day dress falling around her. Mrs. Wilson stood just inside the opened doorway, arms folded over her chest and leaning against the jamb. Though her expression was meant to be stern, it was hard to miss the sparkle in her dark eyes and the way she struggled to keep the smirk off her lips. Down the street, the kids who had been playing were giggling like crazy, some of them pretending to wretch at the gross adults kissing, and they both started to laugh, as well. His mother's eyes warmed, and a grin finally danced over her face. Tipping her head to the next brownstone over, she remarked, "Cheryl has enough to complain about; I don't need her comin' over with her hose, either."

Knowing exactly how crazy the neighbors could get on that street, Sam did not doubt her for a minute. Chuckling sheepishly, he nodded up at her.

"Okay, Mom," he agreed, fingers threading absentmindedly through Kay's bright hair.

"Sorry, Missus Wilson," the agent apologized, loosening the fists that were balling up his shirt at the waist.

"Darlene, honey," the older woman corrected her gently, a laugh being the undercurrent to her words. She inhaled deeply, and Sam wondered if she was going to make a joking comment about her son acting like a teenager caught on the front porch once more, but it didn't happen. Hooking a thumb towards the interior of the house, she murmured instead, "Got some food waiting inside, so whenever you two are ready."

Another round of nods were given, and Darlene's smile became a little more genuine as she retreated back inside. Smirking, Sam directed his gaze back onto the woman before him, his hand slipping from her hair into the pocket of her jacket. Fetching up her keys, she quirked an eyebrow at him when he clicked the button for the automatic locks.

"Well, looks like you're definitely not going anywhere. For the evening, minimum," he articulated calmly, jingling the car keys for a moment before slipping them back into place. His gaze met hers, grew a shade darker as he did so. "Maybe all night tonight, too."

His promising tone made a shiver race up her spine, chilling her in a way she hadn't known before him. Glancing down, Kay's smile drooped as she carefully brushed her thumb over his sling, concern lighting her features.

"You're still healing," she accentuated, trying and failing to sound firm. Hesitance, diffidence creased her face, and she looked up at him. "You sure?"

Fingers fluttered over her cheek, framing her face as he peered down at her. He knew, understood what she meant. Mouth descending on her again, that time it was a slow and sweet kiss, a promise to go on and rebuild what was broken.

"More than sure," he whispered when they broke apart. Slipping his arm around her, they walked as one back up the stairs, ready to begin anew. "Come on."

 **xXxXxXx**

The sky was clouded over The Hague, rain threatening to fall at any moment. The stark, brick building of the United Nations Detention Center stood out, extra security ringing its walls due to the arrival of important visitors. The newly-crowned King of Wakanda had come, at the special invitation of one of the superintendents of the facility. After commencing with his father's funeral, the young king had wanted to be kept abreast of the progress of the murderer's detainment and trial.

Though not all of the foot soldiers had earned a spot in the place, he knew for a fact that Helmut Zemo and Johanna Jensen were there, awaiting the inevitable verdicts that would be handed down. Due to the immediate and sudden nature of their attack upon the members of the United Nations, and subsequent arrest, it was deemed unwise to hold off on trials for long, and were due to meet in court in no later than a week. Mounting evidence was piling, the location of a secret base outside of the capital of Sokovia yielding much by the way of data, blueprints, files—even the weaponry obtained from HYDRA's base in Novi Grad had turned up, purchased under false names and stored for later use. Therefore, there was no choice but to speed up proceedings. As such, he had received a summons as a witness, either to appear before the court or to submit testimony in the presence of lawyers and the judge. Choosing to submit a written testimony of events—the whole world had seen the fall of his father, the attempted rending of nations—he'd arrived that morning, a companion at his side.

Representative Hawley, another survivor of the attack, had gone with him to oversee the progress as well, and give her own statement. She would be testifying at the trial, and had determined to come to the Netherlands ahead of time for her own bout of recuperation. Still, she had seen to it to be at the king's side when he went into the facility, both as a sympathetic body and as the Avengers' representative. When he'd finished signing off on the document, he'd requested permission to see one of the prisoners, to meet with Zemo in person. A part of her had hoped he would be denied the opportunity, but the superintendent saw no reason to refute his request. The paperwork necessary for visitation and for clearance were rushed through, and shortly after noon, both the king and Hawley were granted access to the inner floors. Following the armed escort down the narrow halls to the designated meeting room, the older woman exhaled softly through her nose. Wary glances darted to the tall, determined young man at her side. The minutes passed as they moved, with her stewing the uneasy silence that had descended after permission was granted. Rounding another corner, she placed her palm in the crook of his elbow, forcing him to stop. Quizzical eyes looked down at her, and she sighed.

"Your Highness, I would strongly advise not going through with this," Hawley recommended, squaring her shoulders. The king of Wakanda, and Avenger in his own right, spiked a dark brow at her, a sardonic smirk twisting his lips.

"Do you not trust me to behave, Ms. Hawley?" T'Challa inquired, a touch of humor in his words despite the tenseness of his form. The representative stared back, darkness smoldering behind her eyes.

"Frankly, were I in your position, I wouldn't trust myself not to tear into that man," she confessed frankly, the tiniest tremor shaking her voice. Having witnessed the atrocities of the day herself, of the fall of the young man's father, she knew that what he felt had to be intense. She had been about ready to leap over a table and take care of matters herself when Zemo had acted. The only thing that had stopped her was the fact that her actions would, ultimately, come to nothing (that, and at sixty-three, she was not as sprightly as she'd once been). Sadly, the only thing she was capable of doing was following him out with the rest of the U.N. members, darting and weaving behind the young king as he toted his father's body and led them to safety. T'Challa was royalty raised, but that did not preclude him from possibly descending into a fit of passion, from exacting revenge. And, knowing his exact physical capabilities, he could do just that, if he chose. Still, she could not dictate his course for him. "However, if you insist upon it, then you may do as you please. Just...be cautious. He's not happy about his failure, and he does not like physical reminders of it."

Her warning was met with a slight narrowing of eyes, though T'Challa managed to maintain his neutral expression.

"Then perhaps he should have left one of his physical reminders alive," he remarked darkly, all humor bled from his features. Raising his chin, he continued, "I will not pander to his vanity. I am here for...insurance purposes."

Hawley inclined an eyebrow at that, having already deduced that the king would have his purposes for meeting with his father's murderer. What exactly those would be, dubious label given aside, remained to be seen. Still, she chose to trust in his training, his upbringing, to act as a king and not as the Black Panther. At least for five minutes.

"Very well," she breathed, letting go of his arm and walking with him the rest of the way. The designated conference room at the end of the hall had two guards posted, tactical gear in place and guns at the ready. Holding up a hand, the Wakandan guard fell back behind their king, pressing against the wall and endeavoring to become invisible for the moment.

"You may enter when ready, Your Highness," the armored guard by the left of the door told him, gesturing with his free hand. The king of Wakanda nodded, inhaling sharply and pulling himself to his full height. A last glance was spared at Hawley, the brief flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. Nodding once, the representative stepped away, a promise to be in the hall and waiting on her lips. Accepting her words, the younger man face forward again, hands smoothing down the jacket of his suit, straightening the tribal necklace that dropped over his tie.

"Thank you," he murmured to the guard, striding to the door. With a rueful grin, he flicked a glance over the armored fellows. "Right now, I am merely T'Challa. You don't need to pander to my vanity, either."

Though he didn't see Hawley's mouth curving, he could sense it as he laid his hand upon the doorknob, forcing himself to adopt a stoic expression. Entering the room, the young king quickly took stock of the surroundings. A single camera was mounted in the southeast corner, the room windowless. The walls, all a thick concrete, were painted a sickly green. The florescent lighting was harsh, bright as it illuminated the remaining contents. A table stretched in the middle, barren and white. An empty chair was situated just a few feet in from the door, plastic and metal. On the opposite side, the chair was bolted to the floor, connectors looping to the arm and leg cuffs of the inmate. Dark eyes trailed up from the table top, and he met the gaze of Helmut Zemo fully.

Since his apprehension, since the one called Barnes had told them where he had detained him (zip-tied and left on the second tier, inches from an emergency exit door when the supports had given way), he had been shunted one way or another, his confidence and control lost as his plot fell to pieces. With his mercenary partner dead, and the female doctor turning evidence against him from the moment the cuffs were clapped around her wrists, he was broken. His grand stand had come to nothing, and he had nothing to say about it. No cajoling, no hammering could make him speak about it; he merely pointed out that they had video evidence, and refused to give more without an attorney present. Rather, his minor wounds were tended, and he ate, and slept, and that was all he did. The transfer to the Netherlands had hardly elicited a response. He was no longer the misguided crusader he imagined himself to be, smartly dressed and miles ahead of his foes. Now, he was in a dark red jumpsuit, smudges on the lenses of his loaned glasses and shackles around his limbs.

However, it was easy to tell that he had not lost his avid curiosity, as his eyes had stared at the king of Wakanda. Questions loomed behind his irises, blooming and waiting to be spoken, should the younger man indulge him. Questions, and not a few comments. Spying this, T'Challa sat down in the empty chair, pulling it to the edge of the table. His expression was placid, but the fire inside him was being fanned the longer he looked at the criminal.

"Mister Zemo," he greeted him, innate politeness coming to the fore. The older man raised an eyebrow, scoffing audibly as he tilted his head.

"Technically, I am a baron."

T'Challa barely suppressed a grimace. For all intents and purposes, the man was not wrong. Through birthright, he was gifted the title approximately seven years ago, last in the line after an uncle had passed on. However, the noble rank given to him was so minor that it truly did not make a difference whether he used it or not. He took more pride in his maternal roots, as he'd shown that day in the Assembly Hall. The screams, the horror, it had not faded in the slightest from the king's mind. The darkness of his dreams had grown, colored crimson with blood and the screams of the panther in the distance. The shot, the fall of his father, it was a sight he would never forget, that he would never forgive. For himself and for the man seated across the table from him.

Outwardly, he hinted to none of the weaknesses of his soul. He could not afford to give the man any form of leverage upon his person. Lifting a shoulder, he deigned to answer the fellow.

"And technically, I am a king. But your title has been rescinded, and mine is newly furnished upon me," he pointed out, the bare tremor of his last words going unnoticed (save by himself). Sitting up straighter, he went on, "I am not here to address you in any way other than as a stranger. A stranger who is responsible for the injuries of multiple persons and the murders of several others."

At once, Zemo frowned, and he pointed his finger at him.

"I only killed one man personally. As well you know," he added, a touch of malice coloring his words. He was determined to make the king flinch, to see that abject horror and dejection rise to the surface once more. When all that was returned was a stony glare and no verbal response, Zemo lowered his hand, tutting under his breath. "But given whom you choose to associate with, Your Highness, you should be used to talking with murderers."

Out of his view, below the surface of the table, T'Challa's hands were curling tight to prevent himself from lashing out. As much as he dearly wished to strike the man, to do unto him as had been done to his father, he knew he could not act in such a way. Not as himself, not as the king of Wakanda. Swallowing hard, he leaned forward slightly, picking his words with care.

"An accident robbed you of your family, Mister Zemo, but your deliberations have robbed many others of theirs." T'Chaka's face rose in his mind's eye, the light in him there and gone. Another image, one of Captain Rogers in his hospital bed, his pregnant wife at his side, filtered in as well. He'd gone to see his fallen comrades, offered his condolences to the other nations' members who had lost people in their parties. The brokenness and sorrow could not be pushed back, and he sighed. "And nearly cost so many more."

Zemo snorted. "They deserved no less. Being deluded into believing they are safe in the Avengers' hands. Thinking that they could be safe. They never have been, no more than anyone else. They all needed to see how useless that train of thought is."

T'Challa shook his head, disgust blossoming on his features.

"Unfortunately, you're wrong. As wrong as you were the day this all started brewing in your mind."

What had happened to Zemo was truly tragic, he could concede that much. Losing loved ones was enough to drive anyone mad, to make them consider unspeakable things if meant assuaging the pain. T'Challa knew that better than some, at that point. However, Zemo's fallacy lay in thinking that he had a duty to inform people of mistakes made, when the mistakes were already known and acknowledged. More than that, the mistakes were being rectified, restitution given over to those who had lost so much by those who had inadvertently taken away from them. The Avengers worked to atone for the casualties, to aid the families who were broken and displaced, a myriad of organizations and companies joining in the efforts. Zemo had let his tragedy consume him, and breed further sorrow in its wake. In the end, he wanted people to know his suffering, and would not be denied.

Well, T'Challa knew that suffering all too well, now.

The other fellow let his gaze wander over the king, boredom beginning to line his face.

"Why are you here?"

T'Challa blinked, forcibly dragging himself away from the hurt and the pain within. He did have a purpose for seeing Zemo, and it wasn't to debate the merits (or lack thereof) of his failed mission.

"To let you know that, regardless of where they send you after this to serve your sentence, if they do spare you, I will be watching over your imprisonment from this day forward. You will have the eyes of Wakanda, of the panther, on you from this day forward. And I will personally ensure that all laws are followed to the letter while you are incarcerated."

"You have no jurisdiction here," the older man retorted, a snide edge to his words. His gaze shifted away, to the camera set in the corner near the ceiling. Stiffening his spine, he looked the king dead in the eye. "And even so, do you think they can keep me locked up forever?"

The challenge was made, even if Zemo did not actually mean to follow through with it. For that, the younger man almost smiled; he would not back down from such a thing, and the other fellow was about to understand that.

"We shall see. And if you do escape, I will make sure you are instead brought to Wakandan justice. After all, escape from one means you'll be pursued by the other," he informed him, watching the other man's face pale at the implications. As an insular country, it was rumored that Wakanda's laws and actions against transgressors were practically draconian, since the outside world was not allowed to have influence pushed upon its governing systems. While that was not inherently true, T'Challa was not about to correct that viewpoint. Particularly if it knocked the smugness out of the man who had murdered his family. Palms were laid flat on the table, and T'Challa rose, his build nearly towering over Zemo as he bent a little further. "And I will not be so lenient as I have been. I will hunt you down, and I will tear you limb from limb, if you ever do so."

The older man's throat constricted, as though he was truly aware of the consequences of his actions for the first time. Still, he kept his back ramrod straight, not yielding in the slightest.

"You should be turning on them, not me. They acted rashly," he hissed, all decorum and facades broken, his angry appeal grinding upon the younger man's ears. Zemo still refused to give up his cause, and was even willing to attempt to make the king see reason one final time. "After all, the soldier is responsible for hundreds of deaths, what was one more to him? And the Black Widow, she's a piece of work."

"They did not kill my father," he interrupted, finally goaded into laying down his guard. The remark about the two mentioned Avengers did not so much as make him flinch, as he had been apprised of the situations with all his potential teammates when he had joined. Though their records were riddled with bullets and blood, they showed remorse, repentance. They were willing to right their wrongs, do what was needed to atone, even at the cost of their own lives. He could see no sign of either in the man before him, and so he would not be swayed. Revealing the depth of his anger and hatred, it registered as the downturn of his lips, and the narrowing of his eyes. Furrowing his brow, he conceded, "They tried to save him, and yes, they failed to do so. But I do not blame them, regardless of their past sins. They did not commit murder, regicide. You did."

Yes, T'Challa knew the suffering that Zemo had endured, but he would not make the world pay for it. The older man glared at him, his posture slumping as he recognized how lost his cause truly was. He looked upon the young king as though he were the lunatic, the criminal who should be in chains.

"You're a fool," he spat, blatant disrespect for the monarch in his tone. Turning his head away, he mumbled, "And really no better than they are."

"No, I'm not," T'Challa agreed, his posture straightening once more. A few steps brought him around to Zemo's side of the table, and the older man went rigid as he bent close. Though trying to appear uninterested, dismissive even, the gleam in his eye told T'Challa how poised Zemo was to hear what he had left to say. In a hushed voice, he indulged him for the first and last time. "After all, I am one of them."

Eyes widened, and the would-be baron opened his mouth, his speech stifled as the king briskly strode away. Knocking thrice on the door, the panels were unlocked, and a final look was shot over his shoulder at the man.

"Good-bye, Mister Zemo," the young king said, his farewell falling upon deaf ears as the captured fellow grumbled under his breath. His resolve strengthened as he walked out of the meeting room, Hawley and his guard falling into step with him as he made his was to the exit of the facility. Zemo would face justice, from the world, from the Avengers, from T'Challa. And the Black Panther would, without a doubt, see it done. One way or another.

* * *

 **A/N:** Slowly, but surely, everybody's healing.

There's quite a bit going on in this chapter, and I hope that's alright with you guys. It kinda kicked my butt, but then again, what else is new with my writing? Haha...

Once again, I am not a doctor. Therefore healing times and rates have been adjusted to the parameters of the patients in the story, and may not be 100% accurate, despite personal research. Some broken collarbones honestly require no more than a sling being worn for weeks.

Also, Jan. 19th marked 2 years since I first started this series, when Holly (Martin) Rogers was first brought into being. Celebration...holy cow, look how far we've all come! And still going strong. Gotta keep that up...

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, M&M's, _Dracula_ , Uber, etc.)

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	29. Chapter 29

James Rhodes sighed, scrubbing his free hand over his forehead as he turned over the next sheet in the packet sent to him from the base. He knew it was coming, but he hadn't known the extent to which it would be coming. At least it would keep him occupied for the day, he mused as he scrawled his signature after reading through the mind-numbing march of text, dating it the twenty-third of May. After enduring the multiple surgeries to his hips and leg, he was looking for any form of distraction while he healed. He already exhausted testing out the functions of his wheelchair, a motorized one that Tony had taken the liberty of tinkering with before he got it. It made getting around the Tower easier as he recuperated there; he was fairly certain that if he took it out on the streets of Manhattan, he'd be giving some of the vehicles out there a run for their money. Television and movies had not yet exhausted themselves, but he was getting dangerously close, and so he'd had to pace himself. For now, the paperwork would do well.

It wasn't like he could afford to put off signing it all, anyway.

The chime at the door of his private quarters came, with JJ announcing the arrival's name. Granting verbal access, Rhodey looked up in time to see Tony Stark come around the bend in the hall. For his part, he looked well enough. His own bruises and scratches had healed up, and even some of the exhaustion in his person was starting to fade a bit. Inwardly, the colonel was relieved his friend was not regressing to his bad habits of the past. All work and no sleep made Tony a walking anxiety attack, and he did not relish repeating that experience, ever. He wanted better for his friend. At least it seemed like he was getting that much, those days. Sidling up to the table Rhodey was stationed at, the other man spiked an eyebrow, halting at the edge.

"Wow. I mean, you said you were thinking about it, but..." Tony trailed off, his eyes darting over the papers strewn before his friend. Whistling low, he muttered, "Look at that."

Rhodey snorted, capping his pen for the moment. "Yeah, unfortunately resignation involves more paperwork than an extended leave of absence. Still, better to get this done now."

Gesturing for Stark to sit down, Rhodey would have been remiss if he had failed to notice the flicker of disgruntled pity that flew through the other man's eyes. He met the gaze frankly; he did not feel any shame in tendering his resignation for the Avengers, and he did not want his friend to feel it on his behalf, in any respect. Exhaling through his nose, he waited for the inevitable questions, the confrontation, that he knew Stark had been holding back on since he first declared his intentions the week prior. Rhodes had figured the other man had chalked it up as the post-op drugs doing the talking, but he was clear-minded enough when he ventured the notion. Soon enough, Tony was clearing his throat, folding his hands and laying them on the table-top. Rhodey barely suppressed a smirk at the posture, the one that spoke of business and making deals, and how ingrained it had become in his friend's behavior.

"You sure about going through with this?" he asked, point-blank. Flapping a few fingers at the documents, at the air hovering around the colonel, he attempted to continue, "About..."

"About what?" Rhodey shot back, the faint quirk of his lips sliding away as Tony set his jaw. The thought was clear on his face, and so he addressed it. "You think I'm giving up. Tony, think about it for a sec. I'm forty-eight, and I just had both my hips replaced, and most of my femur reconstructed. Doc says I was lucky that I didn't sever an artery, let alone break or puncture anything else. Don't even get me started on the internal damage bullet I dodged."

Leaning back in his motorized chair, Rhodey blew out a sharp breath, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Even when I'm completely healed, I'm not going to be able to walk normally again," he intoned, an edge of sourness creeping into his words. After all the missions, after all the grunt work and operations he participated in with both the Air Force and the Avengers, and it was a chunk of falling wall that had taken him out of the game. Scoffing, he bluntly murmured, "What part of that says I'm just gonna be able to jump in a suit and keep doing the job?"

Even if he went above and beyond expectations with his physical therapy, there was too much damage in his nerves and back. He'd be hobbling to that suit, a cane his constant companion. And fighting? He doubt very much that could happen, either. Shaking his head, he heard Tony sharply inhale, glancing up as he scratched at the back of his neck. His dark eyes were wide, and he could almost see the wheels running at top speed as he considered options for him.

"I could, I could build somethin', get you some—"

The colonel held up a palm, the calm gesture pacifying him and stalling the build-up.

"Man, stop. I appreciate the thought, but that's not the focus here. This isn't giving up. This is being realistic. I've been serving since I was eighteen years old. I was lucky enough to survive this long as it is. I knew the risks when I switched last year, knew that something like this could happen. That something worse could happen. Am I pissed? Hell yes, I am." Rhodey drew in another breath, the fire inside him lulling bit by bit. He had made his decision, and while he was still coming to terms with it, he already knew that it was the right thing to do. "But...I've been angry. And angry isn't going to change anything. Building something isn't going to change anything, not really."

Tony's answering smirk was a touch bittersweet. "Could make you walk smoother."

Rhodey's had the same touch as he returned it. "Maybe. As it is, I'm going to accept my honorable discharge. Take on something new."

Casting another glance at the paperwork, then to the expansive suite of rooms allotted to his friend, the billionaire's curiosity was palpable.

"Like what?"

The colonel shrugged at that, cutting his gaze away briefly.

"I don't know. Stilted golf? Maybe I'll get myself a hot-rod, actually go through the mid-life crisis I suppressed years ago." Eyeing up the second half of the mailed paperwork, he tapped his thumb against it. "Or, I'll branch out elsewhere; I'll become a tactical consultant."

A dark eyebrow spiked, intrigue in his irises as Tony craned his neck to examine the other documents.

"Is that even a thing?"

Rhodey lifted a shoulder, his grin returning slightly. It had been the counteroffer to his proposal, one that he, in hindsight, was glad to accept. It would stop him from going mad in boredom.

"Evidently, Fury's got some agents who are coming aboard who need to be whipped into shape. They need to learn to think like...well, in some cases, they gotta learn to think, period." The two men shared a chuckle, and the colonel grabbed up his pen again. "Just resigning from one post to take up another. Maybe I'll make it like an online course or something, never have to leave the house again. Sit around in my underwear all day, for once."

Flipping over to the page he'd left off, he spotted the slump of Tony's shoulders out the corner of his eye.

"So, no more War Machine," he stated as the signature was made, the flourish underscoring the change in his friend's status. Tony chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. Rhodes wasn't throwing anything away, or giving up, he reasoned inwardly. Though he would no longer be an Avenger, or even an active member of the military, he would still be himself. He would still be around. That certainly counted for something; he'd come close to losing two friends, and he was lucky enough that they both had stayed. He wouldn't begrudge Rhodey his choices. Still, his brow quirked a bit as he pondered the title that the other man was surrendering. "Or would you prefer the Bionic Patriot?"

Although a lame jest, Rhodey still barked out a laugh, shaking his head as the billionaire proudly grinned.

"I wouldn't. And no, not for the foreseeable future," he affirmed. For a long moment, the two men sat, mired in their own thoughts. He went back to observing his friend, his spirits higher than they had been in months, his disposition improved. Deciding something, he rested his elbows on the table, meeting Tony's gaze directly as he voiced his thought aloud. "But there's always Iron Man, if you're really concerned. Just something to think about."

It was food for thought, something Tony would chew over for a long while after he left his friend's quarters. Promises of the two meeting up for some take-out later were made, and he would see those through, but he needed a few minutes to himself. Up in his private penthouse, he sat upon the couch, a tumbler of bourbon in one hand (significantly less alcohol than he'd had in his younger days, when such things occurred in his life) and his gaze affixed to a point above the high definition screen of his television. His handheld sat in his palm, his thumb swiping over the screen idly as he mused over the options that had presented themselves. Or, singular option, really, but the pursuit of it was where the extending branches of it came into play.

 _There was always Iron Man..._

When he was sentenced to his probationary period and imposed 'vacation' the previous year, Tony had spoken to Pepper about options for the future. While they had both inevitably agreed that it would do him some good to pull away, pull back and let others take the reins, he had stipulated that he would want to open up the discussion again by the following year. It was important, then, to strike the balance between billionaire and superhero, a balance he had not found prior to his experiences with the Avengers. That he had failed to find ever since Yinsen's death, truth be told. The last year had, barring the hiccups and derailments, given him that chance. And then some. He was rediscovering Tony Stark, and the person he was beneath the armor. Now, he was being given an opportunity to find a way to strike the balance and keep it going for longer than a few months. Particularly as he had already initiated a trial run, what with heading into battle with the others mere weeks ago.

He had formed a theory, and as a scientist, he knew that anyone worth the name would indulge in tests as swiftly as possible. As a scientist with a partner, he knew that it would be better to speak to her about it first. Both their lives would have to change, again, and he would have to see if she was on board. Resolve reached, his thumb flew over the screen of the handheld, waking it up. Tapping through, he accessed the telephone function, the contact chosen and the ring of the line echoing in his ear shortly after that. A few whirs, and then a click rebounded, and he sighed.

"Pepper?" he greeted his girlfriend, wincing as several fast questions were lobbed at him. He supposed she had a point; after all, he had been in a major battle recently, and she was always extra-concerned for him in the days that followed, in his experience. Grinning softly, the expression slowly faded as he went on. "Yeah, baby, I'm fine. Yeah, uh, listen, you remember what we talked about, last May? You up for a little reevaluation?"

When the affirmative was breathed over the line, Tony hummed a little. He deposited his half-filled tumbler onto the end table and sat up in his seat, preparing himself.

"Alright, let's get started."

 **xXxXxXx**

"You sure about this, _Medved'_?"

Bucky Barnes trailed his smoldering gaze from the edge of the desk he sat in front of to the woman resting against it. It was mid-afternoon in the middle of the week, the furor over the last several days finally settling down. Back at the base once more, the normal hours spent for training and possible missions had been much lighter than it had been in the previous months. Given that they were down three members—two recovering from wounds and waiting for the green light to return, the other injured and resigned from his post—it was implausible for things to be otherwise. It had left him with the time to think, to ponder out his options in regards to key points in his existence, which had inevitably brought him to his girl's office (privacy controls on and shielding them from view), awaiting his fate.

It hadn't been the first time she had questioned his sense in regards to his decision, but his answer had remained the same, no matter how many times she asked. Looking at her directly, he watched as Natasha Romanoff met his gaze, not apologetic in the least. Still, the softening of the inquiry with the pet name gave him a clue as to the level of concern she truly felt for him. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed.

"It's too dangerous to just let it sit," he repeated his tune, scratching at his scruff. His brow furrowed as he listed the material points to her once again, the blue of his eyes stark against the darkness that threatened to eclipse them. "What if someone else finds out about the words? Tries to bring out the soldier? I can't let that happen."

It was a question he'd been long considering since it had happened, in between all the duties he'd acquired in the aftermath of the disaster. To his knowledge, the trigger words were not widely known, but there was no guarantee that someone else could find them out. HYDRA was surviving somewhere out there, limping and licking its wounds, but still functioning, according to compiled data and missions reports. It would be foolish to let the matter lie, particularly as it could cost him so much in the long run. It could cost him everything, and he did not think he could survive a second loss of that nature.

As he'd learned well before ever entering into a relationship with her, it was impossible to keep secrets from Natasha. Within several days of getting bandaged up and sent home, he confessed what had happened between him and the man called Zemo. His susceptibility to the trigger words had been defeated for the moment, but he feared that it would not remain that way for long. She had consoled him, had promised to stick with him as he sought out a solution, and for that he was grateful. Still, it was hard enough to tell her; he had qualms about telling the team as a whole. As he debated how best to expose one of his greatest weaknesses to the very people he was meant to work with, an idea came to him. One that was worth pursuing. One that they were going to execute that day.

Natasha glanced over at him, the storm inside her visible in her irises.

"It's still risky, letting two telepaths have free reign over your mind," she argued plainly. That Bucky needed to have all traces of the Winter Soldier was obvious. But to let people have permission to run around in his head? It made her uncomfortable, and it wasn't even her brain. Then again, the people he was inviting to solve the problem had more than earned the trust of their companions, of him. Or, at least one of them had. The other had passed her background check, but that was hardly an assurance.

"Wanda and Emily couldn't put anything in there that would be worse than what I already have," he pointed out, a half-smile decorating his lips. Arching an eyebrow, he suggested, "Worried for me, sugar?"

Against her wishes, the corner of Natasha's mouth curved, and she moved away from the desk—carefully, as to not exacerbate the healing bullet wound in her leg. Striding over to him, she ran a hand over his hair (it was growing shaggy again, but he kept putting off the next cut).

"Well, I do have a vested interest in keeping you around," she confessed, her thumb dropping to trace the line of his stubbly jaw.

The eyebrow spiked higher, and his smile turned more genuine. "And what would that be?"

Muffled footsteps clattered down the hall, and Natasha risked a bare glance over her shoulder.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," she murmured, lips brushing over his and claiming his mouth for a kiss. Ending it all too soon, her hand pressed into his flesh shoulder, and she promised, "I'll be right here, Bucky. Whatever happens."

A knock rebounded against the door, and after being granted permission to enter, the two young women enlisted to help the cause came in. Wanda Maximoff waited for Emily Guerrero to come in fully before shutting the door, a nod given to both Natasha and Bucky. It had taken some persuasion, but ultimately, she had chosen to answer the call when the ex-assassin had confessed a need for help. Though she had sworn not to use her powers on her allies, and had kept that promise to herself, Barnes's need outweighed her inner quavering. However, she did not think she could get the job done on her own. While she could project visions and alter realities in people's minds, she had recognized that the depth of the torture used on her compatriot would require more subtle manipulation. Internally, she thanks the powers that were for the enlistment of Synapse; she specialized in morphing men's minds to see intricacies in a more permanent way. She thanked them even more so, as Synapse had not strayed far from the states following the U.N. attacks and could make the trip up to the base. All of what they were doing was strictly confidential, and had to be done quickly. After hellos went around, Bucky insisted that they get right down to business.

"This will not hurt, James. Or it shouldn't, at least," Wanda said, amending her statement as she approached him. Sharing a glance with Emily (and pointedly ignoring the glare Nat was burning her with), she explained, "When it's over, the hope is that the urge to shut down and become the soldier will be nonexistent."

He nodded at that, having told them himself that was what he wanted. However, his brow quirked as unspoken questions filtered through his mind. Flinching as though he'd yelled them aloud, Emily waved a palm in the air, bidding him to calm down for a moment.

"Okay, hold on. What that means is, we're going to try and manipulate your brain to not react whatsoever to hearing the words, beyond a slight twinge," she said, the idea that she had discussed with Wanda prior to that day exposed little by little. The procedure itself would be simple, but the internal effort would be difficult, and they made sure he knew that, in no uncertain terms. "You already fought against them, right?"

Mutely, Barnes nodded, his jaw tensing and his arms crossing over his chest. Dipping her chin, Emily flashed him a fast grin.

"You're already halfway there, Buck-o. It's just completing the task now."

He snorted, metal fingers digging into his opposite bicep. "Call it what you want, it needs to happen. I can only go so far on my own, and I need...I need more."

The vulnerability, the shaken honesty in his words were the clinchers, were what had made Wanda promise to help in the first place. It was an error in judgment that had laid him bare, that had brought this overlooked issue into the light, and it was the desire to correct that error that drove him on. She knew what that was like, and it was her sympathy that had drawn her in.

"We'll help you, friend," Wanda reassured him. Gesturing for Natasha to step out of the room, the redhead looked past her to the man, holding his gaze for several seconds before she left. As the door clicked shut, the younger Maximoff motioned for Emily to take a place behind Bucky. Her green eyes, ringed with sympathy and discernment, met his before the scarlet aura of her powers overtook them. Her hands rotated, fingers splaying as she raised them up. In his peripheral vision, he spotted the second pair of hands hovering by his temples, a low hum echoing in Synapse's chest as she concentrated. Slowly, Wanda moved forward, taking a deep breath. "Just...hold still."

He barely had time to comply with her command, the red auras shooting out from her hands and seemingly into his eyes a split second later. Bucky stiffened in his chair, the pressure on his brain increasing steadily as time bled between moments. Emily's voice, smooth and rolling, focused on the trigger words, rings of red surrounding them in his mind as she compelled him to listen to her. He was not to give credence to the words, would not ever think them more than what they wore. They meant nothing, they were nothing. They did not control him; he controlled them. Memories of shutting down and changing into the Winter Soldier were blasted, scarlet flashes blinding him and obliterating them with every turn.

The ticks of the clock on the wall echoed around him, his eyes snapping open. The two women withdrew their hands from his space, and at once, he was alert. Calmly, Wanda gave the verbal command for the privacy controls to be turned off, the opaque walls on the interior side becoming sheer glass again. Immediately, Natasha swam into view, her gaze boring into the glass and her foot tapping impatiently against the ground. A single nod was directed at her, and she strode to the door, whipping it open and entering the room again.

"Did it work?" she asked, taking in Bucky's creased brow and the blank expressions on the two other women's faces. Emily and Wanda shared another look, silent communication running between them. After several seconds, the one called Synapse rolled her eyes, while the Scarlet Witch's gaze seemed to adopt an air of smugness. Darting her gaze between them, Natasha blew an exasperated breath out her nose, prompting them to get on with it.

"We won't know until it's tested," Emily confided, visibly stiffening and preparing herself for the verbal onslaught. The implications of her words hit with remarkable accuracy, the glint in Natasha's glare turning dangerous while Bucky's was impassive.

"There's really only one way to do that, and you're crazy if you think that's happening," Nat snapped, prepared to defend him and protect him to the last.

"But in a controlled space?" Wanda ventured, hands held out in a placating gesture. "With the Vision as the deterrent?"

The clearly planned-ahead plot had stemmed Natasha's speech for a moment. For his part, Barnes frowned; he did not really want to bring another person...android...into the situation. But really, if there was no other way to test the effectiveness of their efforts, he would prefer the Vision to be the one to try. The automaton was his mental and physical superior, and could likely subdue him quickly if things went sideways. Rising from his chair, he crooked his hand around Natasha's elbow, drawing her away from the other two women and grasping her attention.

"If he has to knock me out, it will shut down the process," he stated plainly, imploring her to see reason. "Long enough for them to get inside and start again."

"James..." she trailed off, a finger rubbing at her temple. Regardless of the public showing of affection, he cupped her face in his palms, bending and resting his forehead against hers. The hot flesh and cool metal framed her cheeks, pulling her out of her own mind as he held her.

"You'll be here?" he whispered, the tremor at the back of his voice telling her far more than his posture did. He wanted, needed the confirmation, before went any further. And, God help her, she could not withhold that from him. Her lips thinned briefly, and then she exhaled sharply.

"...Yes," she said, the pads of her fingers brushing over his arms. A final swipe of his thumbs along her cheekbones, and then he pulled away, pulled back enough so that she could blast them all with an unimpressed glower. "But I'm going on record with saying I don't like this."

Emily squirmed across the room, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder. "Neither do we, but—"

"It has to be done," the redhead confirmed for them all. It took a minute or two, but finally Natasha nodded, her fingers threading with Bucky's as they followed Emily and Wanda out of the office. Down the halls they went, terse silence encompassing them as they walked. The rings of the shoes and boot heels against the floor accompanied them to a small, private training room just off the main space. It took a few minutes, but soon enough the Vision appeared, his violet face blank as Wanda gave him a brief overview of all that had happened. Dipping his chin, he agreed to aid them in the cause, with his female companion whispering the necessary test words in his ear as the others waited. Bucky's hands shook for a moment, the anticipation of what was to come washing over him as the seconds ticked by. Before long, the android was bidding the ladies to leave, and with a final squeeze, Natasha released his grip, going out and letting Bucky meet his fate.

"Are you ready, Sergeant Barnes?" the Vision inquired, the electric blue of his eyes seeming to soften as he spoke. Squaring his shoulders, Bucky let his hands fall loose at his sides, and he carefully nodded. Dipping his chin, the android motioned for the locks to be activated, and for barriers to be turned on. Once the exits and windows looking in upon the room were successfully taken care of, the Vision met his eye again, a jerk of the chin and a quirk of the lips a small apology for what was about to come. Inhaling deeply, Bucky waited as the android looked him for several seconds longer. Soon enough, though, the words were being spoken, the calm and unwavering delivery of each penetrating his mind. His hands clenched of their own volition, and his entire frame tensed up.

Inside his head, he felt twinges, flashes of the pain and despair that had swirled and fogged his mind for years, the blankness beneath all too tempting to indulge in. However, they never amounted to more than twinges, pinpricks of thought that skittered and disappeared into the dark. The soothing, gentle tones that had enveloped him while under Emily and Wanda's care came forward, meeting each word and encasing it. Words of worth, of promise, folded each one, neutralizing them and making them seem...normal. Closing his eyes, dots of scarlet flickered and flamed, growing as each word was spoken, accompanied by white light as they faded. It was an odd sort of pain, like a toothache or a pulled muscle, the fight inside him buffering each blow. As the last word fell from the Vision's lips, a veritable fireworks display of red and white erupted in his head, burning brilliantly before fizzling out.

With the following silence came the realization that his breathing had turned heavy, that his body was aching and his clenched fists had dug so deep that the nails had embedded marks in his skin. But he was still whole, he was still there and present, not a trace of the soldier having gained a foothold. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh lighting above and scrubbing his face with his hands. Bending at the waist, he braced his hands upon his knees, cautious alleviation flooding through him.

Taking a step or two closer, the Vision asked, "How do you feel?"

Performing a quick inner assessment, Bucky swallowed and reported, "Sore, and tired, but...I'm okay."

On the other side of the door, on the shaded glass inset on the wall, the three women involved in the effort looked on, satisfaction and joy creeping up at the successful effort. The redhead gaped for several long seconds, and the other two blinked at one another, the mental equivalent of cheers and high fives echoing in their minds.

"That simple?" Natasha breathed, her gaze riveted to the glass and the barest hint of relief in her form. Emily looked at her out the corner of her eye, a sigh drifting out of her mouth as she tucked her hands into the back pockets of her shorts. That wasn't the word she would have used for it, in her opinion. Discreetly, she wiped at her nose, the trickle of blood that had been there before not flowing any longer.

"We'll have to keep an eye on him for awhile, but short of him getting captured and fully brainwashed again, he should be as safe as any one of us," she concluded, watching as the female Maximoff went into the room, patting Bucky's shoulder with quiet pride. The ex-assassin certainly looked shaken, but he had survived. Their manipulations had saved him, and most likely would save others. Another good deed done, she mused, warmth blooming in her chest as she witnessed her mental cohort take the android by the hand and lead him out the door first.

Natasha snickered, the stoicism of her form bleeding away. "That alone should make me worried."

Canting her head, Emily let a full smile grow on her lips as the older woman went into the room herself, going to Barnes and folding him into her arms. Wanda gestured to her as she walked away with the Vision, a thumb-up passing before she wrapped her arms around the flustered android. Good deed definitely done, the Latina girl inclined her head, pivoting on her heel and marching away from the sight. She'd let them have their time, and she would occupy what few moments she had left at the base before returning to London with finding some grub. And some tissues, to be safe.

 **xXxXxXx**

That Saturday, Steve sat on the edge of his hospital bed, hands laced together and settled in his lap. It was mid-morning, just about the time that secondary rounds would be made. However, he was up and dressed for another reason entirely. The time allotted to his recovery had been met, and Captain Rogers was on the verge of discharge. All he had to do was wait for the official word, and then he was free.

The process of healing was not entirely easy, particularly as he recovered at a faster rate than typical people, but he had been held to assure that he met the terms set to him. Once he'd been moved out of the city and back up to the base's hospital unit, his impatience had tripled, and waiting out the last week and a half was almost like torture. To be near to his home, to his wife, yet not able to leave with her when she had to go, was infuriating. Not to mention, the boredom between physical assessments was interminable (and Holly could only visit so often; she stopped by after work everyday, but that only alleviated the stolidness for a few hours before she had to go home).

That was all set to change that morning, and he was eager to go (so eager that he practically inhaled his breakfast and showered in record time). Picking at a crease in his jeans, he had to note that Holly was right: he infinitely preferred his own clothing, and the reasons behind why he was able to switch to them. Fingers strayed over to the brown bomber jacket lying beside him, to the duffel bag underneath it, and then fiddled with his wedding ring—back in its proper place once the splint came off. The clock on the far wall ticked, and he stomped on the urge to tap his foot, jiggle his leg as he waited.

He sat at attention as Helen Cho came into the small recovery room, which had been his temporary home since he'd been transferred out of New York-Presbyterian. Politely, he nodded to her as she came in, masking his impatience as best he could. To have his release be so close was almost driving him up the wall, but for the sake of remaining on good terms with the head doctor and administrator, he bit his tongue. Idly, she gave a final, cursory look over the charts, her dark gaze flicking up at him with an almost mischievous glint. Humming, she finally took pity on the man perched before her, hope springing into his face before she even uncapped the pen she'd brought with her.

"There you are, Captain," she announced as she signed the final piece of paperwork. Carefully, she waved the clipped charts in the air, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing in humor as he breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Fully discharged."

A full smile graced his lips, and he seemed to sit up a little straighter.

"Thanks, Helen," he murmured, bracing his palms on the bed and standing up. Small twinges in his arm and leg shot up, and another spiked across his chest. Unconsciously, he rubbed at it through his t-shirt, the ridge of the scar there pushing back. The flickering wince flashed over his features, gone in an instant as he muttered, "No offense, but I'm glad to be heading out."

Helen chuckled a little, scratching out another note on the chart before setting it in the folder tray near the door.

"None taken. We'll continue to do follow-up exams, and you _will_ keep meeting with the PT to determine the rate of your progress, but otherwise you're about as well as can be expected," she stated, nodding in confirmation of her own words. For the last week and a half, Captain Rogers had been making excellent progress with his recovery. The weakness and hurt of the early days had faded, and while he still felt some soreness around his bullet wounds, he had been healing above and beyond the average person. Having access to his previous medical files, she knew that had been the case ever since he'd gotten the serum in the first place, but seeing the physical truth of it was something else entirely. The set of her smile took on a serious air, and she prepared her final recommendations. "I am urging you to take some time off, but as that seems unlikely, I ask that you at least refrain from attempting another mission for two weeks, minimum. And even then, it would be preferred if you didn't go out into the field yourself."

Steve snickered humorlessly, scratching at the back of his neck.

"I'll do what I can, doc." Off her unwavering, steely expression, he blinked and swallowed. Helen was downright intimidating when she wanted to be. "And I won't skip out on the physical therapist, promise."

The stony cast to her features cracked, enough so that a corner of her mouth curved.

"You're a good patient, Steve. You better remain that way," she intoned, her command brooking no refusal. Clearing her throat, she continued, "And now, for the final part..."

She cut a glance over to the wheelchair waiting just outside the door, and Steve's gaze followed, his lips turning down in a frown.

"Can't you make an exception just once?" he implored, shrugging on the bomber jacket over his white tee. As much as he tried to be fair and patient while being under observation and treatment, he really, truly despised the idea of being wheeled out. It made him feel like an invalid, every time, back even before he'd gotten the serum. At once, Helen shook her head, a knowing look in her eye.

"Sorry; it's a liability issue, you know that. Just to the front doors, and then you're a free man," she promised. Watching as his jaw set and his blue gaze flared in defiance, she decided to try and sweeten the deal. "Come on, I have it on good authority that someone is waiting for you there."

That broke the stiffness, and there was a glimmer of joy peeking through, then. She knew that he and his wife had worked out the arrangements themselves, but the reminder could only help. Tapping a thumb against the phone in his pocket, he dipped his chin and scooped up the small duffel.

"Okay, fine," he exhaled, striding over to the chair and sitting down carefully. Once the bag in his lap was situated, Helen came up behind him, pushing the chair away from the private rooms towards the reception area. A few agents who had been relegated to treatment inclined their heads as he passed, but otherwise the journey was silent. Just beyond the front doors stood a brunette woman, one hand splayed over the expanding swell of her belly and the other fiddling with the strap of the purse in her grip. Brown eyes warmed at the sight of them, spying her husband's reticence and creasing with contained laughter. She barely heard the huff the captain gave under his breath, but withheld both laughter and comment as they made their way across the room.

"There," she declared, parking the chair just over the threshold. Locking the brakes, Helen stepped back as Steve got to his feet, closing the gap between him and his wife. She allowed herself a small grin of pleasure as the younger woman beamed, arms wrapping around his middle as he embraced her. Superfluously, she announced, "He's all yours, Holly."

Looking over at the doctor, Holly shot her a playful wink. "Yes, he is. Thank you."

Inclining her head, Cho gave Steve one long, admonishing look, one that told him he'd better follow through with his promises and do as she'd told him. Clearing his throat, he nodded once more to her, and she smirked as she pivoted on her heel. Clinic duties beckoned, and she knew that her patient was in capable hands. Turning back to look at Holly, Steve bent down, pressing a kiss to her hair as his free hand tightened around the straps of his bag. Accepting his gesture, she pulled away a few moments later, tipping her head towards the hall.

"Ready to go home?" she inquired, the question partially facetious. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, an exaggerated movement that made her giggle.

"More than ready, doll."

Taking her hand in his, they walked side by side out of the medical bay. Maneuvering into the halls of the base, it was surprising to note the number of agents in the halls, hundreds of eyes watching them as they passed. A good number of them called out encouragement to the captain, to his wife, well wishes for the remainder of his recovery and pleasant send-offs as he returned home. Pink tinged his cheeks as they walked, thank-yous and nods of appreciation given with a shy, almost painful smile. The grip on Holly's fingers tightened, but he maintained the steady gait he'd adopted earlier. Her other palm curled around his bicep, her body pressing into his side as they moved, but she was able to meet the direct gazes of the others with a grin of her own. Once they made it to the elevator and through the remaining gauntlet of agents to get to the underground garage, both of them exhaled deeply.

"That was intense," Steve declared upon entering her car. His truck had long since been returned to their home, and he was not opposed to riding passenger for this trip.

"A lot of people look up to you, in case you haven't noticed," she pointed out lightly, tossing her purse into the backseat before climbing in behind the wheel. Starting up the car and clipping her belt as comfortably as she could over her bump, she seriously murmured, "And care about you. Which is why it's going to end up being more than a party of two for dinner tonight."

"Thought we were already up to three," he retorted, glancing at her belly and grinning as she snorted. As she backed the car out of the space and directed it to the doors, he wondered, "Who else?"

"The team wanted to come over, celebrate your release," she explained, the service road stretching out before them, the churn of the dirt under the tires crunching as they went.

"Are they bringing the food?" he asked, her snicker and answering nod hot on its heels. Tipping his head back against the rest, he reasoned, "Then I suppose we could make room in the schedule for them."

Canting her head, Holly imparted, "In the meantime, we'll have a few hours before they come. So we don't have to rush around the minute we get home."

"Thank goodness," he mumbled, more than a little pleased that he wouldn't be forced to entertain right away. It had been weeks since he'd been alone with his wife, in a non-sterile environment, and he wanted a few minutes of peace and privacy. Understanding his thoughts fully, the corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk.

"Small blessings."

Several minutes later, the car made the turn up their driveway, the slate blue house coming into view amidst the greening trees. As they pulled into their garage, he spotted the motorcycle in the corner, the cover having been removed for him sometime in the last week. Following her lead, he felt a rush of relief and happiness overtake him as they entered the house. It'd felt like ages since he been there, crossing through the kitchen to the living room, the minute shift of the boards under his feet a welcome sound to his ears. Slowly, he walked through to the stairs, Holly trailing behind him and biting her lip as his fingers brushed against walls and the banister as he passed. Climbing up to the second floor, he shot a look at the office and the nursery, both doors open and the familiar contents within each met with a nod of contentment. Making his way towards the master bedroom, to the light blue walls and dark bedspread, he barely paused in his journey to drop his bag, make certain that his shield (taken by Holly and perched by the wall at all times since his hospitalization) was steady before going straight to the bed and flopping face-first onto the mattress. Belatedly, he remembered that he hadn't taken off his boots, but as he sank into the marshmallow fluff—which he could tolerate better those days—he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

"My house, my bed," he moaned, his satisfaction muffled by the pillow his face was buried in. A bark of laughter echoed behind him, and he rose onto his elbows after a moment. Peering over his shoulder, he smiled at Holly, who had been observing him and his graceful display from the doorway. Jerking his head in a 'come here' fashion, his grin became broader as she circled around the bedside. "My girl."

"And your boy," she returned, taking a seat beside him and a muttered 'uff da' on her lips (smothering his laughter as he remembered Holly's explanation for that: "You can take the girl out of Minnesota..."). A wince graced her features, a gasp shooting out as her palms came to rest on her stomach. "Gah, he's spinning in there today. He must be happy that you're home."

Snickering, Steve scooted closer to her, his hand rubbing over the swell.

"Aw, all excited for me, pal?" he crooned, propping himself up enough to press a kiss to the curve. "Good boy."

"Yeah, it's so good when he chooses to dance on my bladder all day," she replied, a snorting ripping out of her before she could help herself. Shaking her head, she patted his arm, prompting him to move over to his side of the bed. Lying down and facing him, affection flooded her gaze as her fingers traced along his cheek. "I'm glad you're here, too."

The spike of loneliness fluttered up, as the nights she'd spent alone in the house, in their bed, while he was away from her came to the fore of her mind. A wan smirk tugged at his lips, understanding her frustrations all too well. Tilting his head, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close as he kissed her. Little by little, the brushes and sips they took from one another shoved the coldness that had cropped up, heating them both as they held onto one another, murmurs and whispers passed in their shaky breaths. In the midst of their embraces, vibrations rattled in Steve's pocket, and he groaned when it happened for the third time in as many minutes. Groaning, he removed his phone, grimacing as he viewed the name and missed call notification on his screen.

"Nick, again," he grumbled, his thumb quickly moving to the side to shut down the device. Holly rolled her eyes, good humor dissipating as she scrubbed a hand over her forehead.

"I would've thought you earned some sort of break," she muttered plaintively. Glancing at her, Steve lifted a shoulder.

"It's just follow-up to a conversation we've been having for the last week," he explained. When her eyebrows rose, he shrugged again, wryness in his tone when he spoke. "There were a lot of hours when I didn't see anybody. I had to occupy my time some way."

She snorted at that. "Workaholic."

"So new?" he retorted, sitting up and placing the device on the nightstand. Leaning back against the headboard, he let out a slow, deep breath. "It was, and still is, important. All part of the plan."

Rising up beside him, Holly gave him a mock glower. "Getting shot was part of the plan?"

"More like a catalyst, to a degree," he corrected her mildly, not wishing to actually joke about the severity of the injuries he'd sustained. She wouldn't take too kindly to that, even from him. Instead, he merely confided, "I've had an idea on the back burner for awhile, and with everything that happened, I don't think that I can keep doing what I have without it."

A puff of breath flew out of her nose, and she tilted her head to the left.

"You gonna keep being cryptic, or can you let me know what you're planning?"

"I can afford to spill. Particularly as it affects you, too," he said, her attention fully captured after that. His hands strayed to hers, toying with the fingers one by one as he went into detail about what he'd had in mind. Twitching her claddagh and wedding ring, he risked a glance up, meeting her gaze fully. Her wide-eyed stare spoke volumes, but she otherwise remained silent. When he'd finished, he took in a deep breath, a swallow bobbing in his throat. "Will you back me up on it, Holl?"

It took her a few moments to speak, her dark eyes focusing on a point over his shoulder as she laced their fingers together.

"You know I will, but...are you sure that's what you want?" she asked him, brow furrowing as she did so. The sudden spring of guilt and uncertainty in her face was all too obvious, and it tugged at his heart to see it. Tucking the loose strands of her hair behind her ear, her hand started to fidget with the hem of her shirt. What he was planning on, what he was considering, she could get behind the idea. But she didn't want it to happen, if he was only doing so because he felt he must. "I just...I just don't want to force you into any decision."

His palm came up to her cheek, his thumb sliding back and forth over the skin.

"Trust me, this was not a forced decision," he confessed, honesty in his tone. He would not lie; it wasn't an easy decision to make, but ultimately, it was what would be for the best. The trouble lay in convincing Fury to see his point of view, in considering the new options that he provided. If worse came to worse, he would fall back onto Plan C, which was less preferable overall. However, it remained that his mind was made up, on his own accord, without being swayed or pressured by anyone other than himself. "It's what I want, I promise. And if anybody has a problem with it...well, at this rate, it hardly matters. A lot's been given. I want to see if another way can be found."

Unable to refute the truth of his statement, Holly sighed inaudibly, closing her eyes for a few seconds. Steve let his hand fall onto her shoulder, soothing circles rubbed into the fabric of her shirt.

"Well, this is one alternative path. Yet another change, though..." she cut herself off, leaning and bracing her forehead against his. Thinking for a moment, she let a giggle float out. "Now that I know, it puts the whole congrats train at the base into perspective. I get why it was more awkward than usual for you."

Steve chuckled, the low rumble in his chest accompanied by the shake of his head.

"It won't be as bad as all that. We can survive it; we all will. It has to be done."

The stalwart resolution in his gaze made a shiver race up her back, the totality in his declaration seeming to reverberate around them. Dipping her chin, she sat up a little straighter, reaching up and fixing the skewed strands of his hair.

"Being a little selfish, Stevie?" she teased him. Bright blue eyes darted away, and a rueful twist came to his lips. She mirrored it, and bussed his cheek. "After seventy years, I think you've earned the right, sweetie."

The ruefulness started to melt away, and he canted his head. "So long as I have the seal of your approval, Princess."

"Hmm," was the apt response. Looking across him to the clock on the nightstand, her eyebrows arched slightly. Laying a palm on his chest, over his thumping heart, she let it trailed down, the muscles underneath her touch jumping as she went. "Well, Nerfherder, we still have quite a bit of time before everyone arrives. You up for a proper welcome home? Or at least a gentle one?"

The smirk he sported took on a lusty lilt, and his eyebrow spiked. They both understood his limitations while in recovery (Helen had driven that home enough over the last few days), but he did know himself the best. And what she was suggesting was... _doable_.

"I'm open to it," he told her, his hands bracing along her waist as she swung a leg over and settled in his lap. As the pads of her fingers traced under his jacket, at the collar of his shirt, his eyes went half-lidded. "Take good care of me, yeah?"

"Of course," she whispered, the words ghosting over his lips before her mouth followed, the press of her body and belly to him fueling the fire inside him. Oh, he was definitely glad to be home.

* * *

 **A/N:** What's this? I'm posting a day early? What is this madness?!

...This madness is due to the fact that I will be working during my normal posting time, so I cranked this out fairly quickly this week. :) I hope it's to your liking! We'll be back to the normal posting schedule for next week.

We've got Rhodey retiring from the superhero business, Bucky breaking the last chains on his mind, and Steve formulating another part of the plan...which will be brought fully to light in the next chapter. You are clear for discussion, my friends. For this chapter, the last chapter...speculation on the future, go for it.

The 'uff da' thing—with its hundreds of different spellings—isn't exclusively Minnesotan, but a lot of Minnesotans do say it! Touching a bit on Holly's roots, there. ;)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, _Star Wars_ , etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	30. Chapter 30

By early June, the streets surrounding the United Nations building in the city had been mostly cleaned up, repairs for it and the Assembly Hall well underway. Aided in part by the recovery crews employed by SHIELD, and even a few agents of Stark Relief, it was anticipated that the area would be fully finished with by the end of the summer. That was the latest projected time, and while the members of the organization were not totally happy with it, they did appreciate the fact that it would be done at all. In the meantime, they would be meeting at other secure locations to attend to the business of the world.

The able-bodied Avengers also helped with the reconstruction efforts where they could, staying true to their promises they had made over a year prior to the sad events. There was a rotation, with one member switching out every few days, speaking with survey crews and fielding questions from the U.N. representatives that were still in the city.

Steve, while he was unable to go himself due to his injuries (and then his doctors' strict instructions to stay back and actually allow himself to heal), monitored the efforts, pleased to find that his team, his friends, were remaining active. As it had turned out, Bucky had been running almost nonstop since it had started, incorporating himself with the SHIELD agents on-site and even cycling up to Fury to make personal reports and assessments. He'd certainly come a long way from the surly, lost man he was three years ago, he mused as he turned over another report, the shuffle of the papers across from him drawing his attention up from his desk. Maria Hill was there, having declared that the day would be spent in catching him up and formulating the plans for the coming months. Understanding precisely what she was alluding to, he agreed, and so the captain and base director got to work.

A call came in the afternoon, following a check-up with Chapman on the secondary team's status, of aircraft in the vicinity. When radioed, the flight crew indicated that the Secretary of State was aboard, requesting a meeting at the base director's earliest convenience. Rogers and Hill shared a look, the blond man raising an eyebrow in silence. Maria shook her head slowly; she was not aware of the secretary's intent on coming, and would have certainly warned them all if she had. Sighing (though later, her assistant would assert that she had groaned) she gave permission for the jet to land, and would meet with the secretary in her office. It was far too late to request the rest of the team be present for the meeting, but Steve was not about to let Maria face the man alone. Picking up the papers and setting them aside for later, he moved with her, sounding the general warning to the others over the comm line as they went.

Adjourning to her space, the captain chose to stand, back ramrod straight and his arms crossed. Seating herself behind her glass-and-metalwork desk, Hill folded her hands atop it, the chairs on the opposite turned out and ready for the new arrival. Soon enough, the muffled ring of heels in the hall heralded the man's arrival, the assistant holding open the door for him and allowing him to bypass her. Another glance passed between the two as Ross looked back at the assistant and bade her to go. Discreetly, the young woman let the barest flicker of irritation flash over her face, with it caught by the former soldier and spy in the room as the secretary faced forward again.

"Captain Rogers, Ms. Hill," Ross greeted them when the door was shut, his face a stoic mask as he dipped a nod. Smoothly, he sat at Maria's silent invitation, her answering nod followed by Steve's. The briefcase in his hand was set beside a leg of the chair, no doubt filled with papers and proposals of his own.

"Secretary Ross," the captain replied verbally, his tone as neutral as possible. After their last meeting months ago, it was best to maintain careful control. Mainly because the fellow could make him lose it rather quickly. "What brings you out here?"

The stoic expression started to melt, a hint of smugness bleeding through. "Just wanted to let you know that the Sokovians have approached us to hold Zemo for his prison terms at our facility."

The captain's lips thinned even as he tipped his chin up. It was hardly surprising that Sokovia would want to transfer Zemo to a maximum security prison; their own facilities were not up to par, not for what was required of the man's sentence. Last he had heard, he was being held indefinitely at the Hague, but clearly that had changed. For her part, Maria took the news placidly.

"Good, he'll be secure there, if you all can agree," she conjectured, sitting forward in her seat. Her bright eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction as she looked at the secretary, her gaze running from the pressed suit he was wearing back to the self-satisfied cast of his features. "However, I suspect there's more to it than that. After all, we do have a representative you could've gotten in touch with to relay the news."

The contentment in his form faded slightly then, a flickering glance shot down to the case at his feet as he shifted in his chair.

"Yes," he conceded, another uncomfortable shuffle making him sit up straighter. His eyes closed briefly, and the expression on his face shifted to rancor for a few seconds. Focusing on the base director, he coughed once and informed her, "I—we—wish to reopen discussions regarding the Raft with you."

The captain's eyebrows rose, not a little shocked by his words. He had figured that Ross would maintain his stance to the bitter end, that he would only have more demands for them and vitriol to spew. It was something else entirely to see him there, proverbial cap in hand and looking for a compromise.

If Hill was just as surprised as him, she did a better job of hiding it. "Unless the conditions of your previous offer have changed, we can't agree to anything you propose."

Now Ross was looking as though he were chewing on tacks, a single fist clenching along the arm of the chair as he cleared his throat.

"Things...have changed since then. The news of the construction and opening of the facility have not gone over as well as we had hoped." That was putting it mildly. Since its unveiling that winter, the secretary had been met with harsh criticism and internal inquiries about the Raft's existence. On the whole, it had been deemed necessary, as he had concluded, but his participation in the enterprise was met with reticence. Whispers and mentions about his experiments years ago, his brutal treatment of those in his employ during the the attempted recreation of the super-soldier serum, were surfacing frequently. And that hadn't even touched the media speculation. His blood boiled at the thought, but he managed to keep his frustration in check as he continued to speak. "The legitimacy of the endeavor has been called into question, by many groups. I wish to rectify that. And, like it or not, it would serve your purposes to use it, too. People like Zemo cannot be held in a typical prison, no matter how draconian the legal system is in the home countries of the offenders. There is a great need for the Raft, especially nowadays."

Rogers exhaled slowly; it was all he could do to mute the scoff it had almost become.

"I won't disagree with the need, but the motives aren't exactly something I can get behind. That we can get behind," he stated firmly, meeting the ex-general's baleful gaze. He'd had enough of understatement and banter. Striding forward, the blond man bluntly laid all the cards on the table. "We're not idiots, Ross. What, and who, you really built that prison for is not lost on any of us. You want our endorsement so badly? Cede control totally to the United Nations and the World Security Council, and remove yourself from the management of the facility. Before they choose to take action themselves. If you are truly concerned with the safety of the world, with the safety of the people who inhabit it, then you should be able to do that much, don't you think?"

The last question was given with a mocking tilt of the head, the bright blue gaze narrowing further as Ross sat slack-jawed. A few seconds passed, with mottled red flooding the secretary's face, and the man fully glared at him.

"You can't—" he started, his steam gathered and ready to launch a verbal assault at the captain.

"Neither can you," Steve broke in, the last of his patience drawn upon. "But you did, anyway."

"At the expense of the taxpayers and by whatever other means you utilized. And in international waters, no less," Maria concurred, albeit in a calmer tone.

"We had permission," the secretary retorted, his jaw set mulishly as he attempted to cling to the shreds of his dignity. Spotting the minute shift of his gaze, Steve allowed himself to scoff that time.

"But not the approval that matters," he intimated, having heard the rumors of the lower levels of government that the ex-general had to coerce, the lower members who had supported him having no great reputations. It had gotten the job done, but not in the way the fellow wanted. Not in the way that involved support from the world's elite task force. Ross clenched his teeth, choosing to say nothing instead of admitting the truth. After letting the silence hang for several seconds, the captain murmured, "Again, if you really care about the world, part of which you helped make the way it is, you will do this. Otherwise, you're right; I can't do anything about it."

"You need us, Rogers," the ex-general retaliated, a hand flapping in the air. "If you refuse, that leaves you with the risk that the Sokovians will put Zemo somewhere less secure. He could get free, and then what?"

Ross's jaw snapped shut, the confirmation of Sokovia wanting the Avengers to support their decision coming out all too easily due to his rage. With his placidity in a death grip, Steve felt the blood in his face heat up exponentially.

"Then we'll find him again. Hopefully before the King of Wakanda does. I've heard the justice system there is a lot more clear-cut than in other places, and as internalized as the country is, if T'Challa gets to him first..."

The declaration was left hanging, allowing the ex-general to fill in the gaps for himself. Exhaling sharply, the older man tightened his fist for a long moment, loosening it as he let the anger drain from his face.

"What you're asking for...if I choose to entertain your notions, how would it be explained to the public?" he queried, squinting at them both. If they wanted that solution, then they had to provide the answers as well. To that, the captain lowered his hands, resting them along his belt.

"I'm sure you'll find a way to spin the story to come out in your favor. You've done it before," he said, the not-so-oblique reference to the past causing the other man to bristle.

"Call it a gift to the world, at the nation's behest," Hill interjected, doing her best to stop the confrontation from turning into a physical brawl. Though the 'gift' would engender plenty of paperwork and motions, it would be better for all involved if the changes could occur. Particularly if Ross could pretend that he was being magnanimous about it. "I'm sure you'd be compensated well for your generosity."

A beat of silence, then two, ticked by, and Ross let out an exasperated moan at the steely gazes directed towards him.

"Never go into politics, Captain," he grumbled aloud, reaching down to fetch up his briefcase.

Steve hummed under his breath. "Believe me, Mr. Secretary, I know where my strengths lie."

Occupying himself with checking the latches, the older man shot a glance to the base director. "You do know that I will be keeping a close eye on everything done with the Raft, if I surrender my wardenship?"

Maria inclined her chin, tapping a button on her desk to summon her assistant. "We wouldn't expect otherwise, sir."

Blinking, the secretary continued through the motions of preparing himself to leave, rising from his chair without ceremony. As he pivoted on his heel, Steve let him get a foot or two away before speaking again.

"I will tell Hawley to expect your call."

Stopping, Ross glanced over his shoulder at him, his eyebrows rising. "I didn't agree to anything."

"I know. I also know you will call her, regardless of that," the captain answered, his tone almost placating. "Better that she knows ahead of time, either way. Have a safe flight home, Secretary Ross."

The door swung open, the young lady on the other side smiling politely as the ex-general gave clipped nods in farewell to the captain and director. The clack of his shoes was followed by the clicks of her heels as she guided him back towards the exit and his jet. Left in the quiet for a second or two, Hill exhaled in relief before shooting a significant look at the captain.

"Sure you don't want to reconsider your position on politics, Rogers?"

That made Steve laugh, though there was very little humor in it.

"Oh, definitely not. I have other things to take care of right now," he pointed out. Staring off in the direction that Ross had gone, he wondered, "Think he'll agree?"

"We'll see," she responded, a thumb tapping against the glass desktop. Chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment, she exclaimed, "Convoluted as it is, Ross actually is trying to help protect the world. Maybe he'll see what's necessary to do that, now."

Inhaling deeply, Steve could only lift a shoulder in response to her tepid optimism. Perhaps a resolution could be reached, Rogers mused privately as he bid farewell to Hill himself, going back to his office to attend to the reports waiting for him. Maybe, for once, it would be alright. They would know soon enough, and in the meantime, he had work to do.

 **xXxXxXx**

A midweek meeting was called, all the active Avengers in the room for the first time in days. The business of the last month had to be reviewed, bases to be touched and matters to be settled. Steve sat at the head of the table, his bright gaze lingering on each teammate, each friend, as Hill passed around sheet with the topics they needed to go over listed upon them. Sam had returned the week prior, his sling exchanged for a wrap as he went through the necessary therapy for his broken collarbone. As he chatted idly with Lang, the older man leaned back lackadaisically in his chair, just an inch or two from falling backward. With one hand extended towards him, Wanda otherwise was focusing on fixing the collar on the Vision's sweater with the other, her green eyes sliding to scarlet and back as she did so. Shaking his head, he glanced at Bucky and Natasha, the pair of them in low-voiced conference as ever. However, he did catch his friend's hand slipping below the edge of the table, not to return even after Hill called them all to attention. Just another meeting, though he knew better than to really consider it as such.

First on the docket was the progress being made in the city. While Hill herself could not speak much on the matter, she did report that construction was moving ahead, with clarification on several actions deferred to Bucky. The ex-assassin had stated that some of the United Nations members had approached him with the idea of further expansion, or at least to assign some elite guards to be part of security from that moment on. Fury was contemplating the proposal, while Bucky asserted that they should get used to what they had already before attempting any more changes. The urge to laugh sardonically was quelled, shoved down as it bubbled in Steve's chest. From there, it moved onto Ross's compromise, and the ultimatum that had been thrown down. Given how things had happened the first time around, the team was more than pleased with the idea that the Raft could soon be under new management and provide them with a better option for detainment. Maria, tapping a pen against the table, shifted conversation back to team alterations. With Rhodey's resignation processed and accepted, Stark had called in, saying that he was willing to take his place. At least, on a part-time basis, as he was still mired in the middle of a few crucial deals for Stark Industries and keeping an eye on Parker's progress. Another assessment of the kid's abilities was called for, and he would be up by the end of the month to check in with them. Time wound down, with Steve contributing very little to the proceedings, preoccupied as it was.

Soon enough, though, Hill was asking if there was any further business to discuss before breaking, her bright gaze darting to him, and so he stood, clearing his throat.

"Everyone...after the events of last month, I've had time to think about the direction this team is going. The direction I am going," he began, the well of nervousness cresting little by little in his chest. "And while I still believe we are ultimately heading towards the same goal, my path has been changing."

"No kidding, Daddy-to-Be," Wanda teased lightly, comfortable enough with her position to do so nowadays. Snickering, Steve shot her a smirk and pointed a finger at her.

"Exactly." Glancing to his right, he tipped his head towards Maria and indicated, "I have spoken to Hill and Fury about alterations of the team's structure for the future."

Unable to help himself, Sam snorted. "Seems to be an ever-present theme today."

Steve's smirk turned into a rueful grin, and he sighed.

"For a reason. After a lot of deliberation, I have decided to step down as a field leader." The ring of shocked expressions staring back at him were almost unnerving. He didn't blame them for it; when he first considered the option all those months ago, he had known that the idea was not going to accepted so easily. Not that they took his service for granted, but it was clear that they did not think he would ever step down from his position in such a way. However, it wasn't as simple as just walking away. There was more to it than that. After allowing the words to sink in for a few moments, Steve coughed and continued, "I'll be accepting a different role in the coming months. Instead of being Captain America, I'll be a commander. More of my time will be spent here working, and not in the field. With exceptions being world catastrophes."

Leaving the organization entirely was the opening option, to persuade Fury and Hill to see things his way and for compromises to be reached. It had never been his intent to just cut ties and walk away, not without something to ease the transition. It had been his stipulation to Fury when he had balked at the idea, when he had tried to dissuade him from pursuing the course. Either a promotion to a less combative role inside, or to let him go. His life was changing, his priorities were changing, and for once, he did not want to be the one to bend. He had given so much to the world, to the Avengers; they could afford to give back, at least in that regard.

"So you're leaving us, yet not leaving us," Scott muttered, walking through what was happening out loud. Not to say that he was unintelligent or anything, but it did help him clear up any possible confusion he could have with it all.

"Not except for a few weeks of paternity leave, which is within my legal rights as an employee here according to my contract," Steve finished, his hands resting on his hips. Silence descended upon the room, the ticks of the clock on the wall practically echoing in the space.

"Commander Rogers," Bucky said, giving his friend a long look as he applied the title.

"But...what about...?" Lang tried to ask, gesturing wide for a moment. Picking up on his train of thought, Natasha cut in.

"Captain America has existed for decades. It's more than just a title; it's become an ideal," she stated calmly looking at each of the team members assembled. Comprehending nods were given, and she spiked an eyebrow at him. "Are you really gonna let that die?"

Rogers shook his head at that, his back stiffening as he glanced around the room.

"No. Believe me, there's nobody who understands the importance of the title more than I do. And it isn't going to die, not on my watch," he stated firmly. The others stared at him, curiosity at how he would accomplish such a thing after surrendering the title in the first place in their eyes. Holding up a palm, he told them, "There will still be a captain, a field leader. Ultimately, I am allowed to choose my successor, but...I couldn't pick just one. I want you all to vote on the choice, since you will be working with the person."

The youngest Maximoff sat forward, inclining her head. "I can agree to that. Who are the candidates?"

For a second or two, Rogers paused, his dramatic leanings extending the moment. Raising his chin, he eventually found the gumption to tell them.

"Sam Wilson, and James Barnes." If the initial announcement had them shocked, the second one had totally stunned them. Or, at the very least, it stunned the two men in question. Sam and Bucky gaped at him, the wonderment and startled looks on their faces plain. Slowly, Steve dipped his head in a nod, confirming that he had indeed chosen them. That in the end, he thought that both his friends deserved the role. Murmurs from the remaining team members filtered into his hearing, and he was forced to press on. Inhaling deeply, he insisted, "Both of them have proven themselves able and worthy of taking up the mantel of Captain America. You have time to discuss it all. I would like an answer no later than July 1st."

Deadline given, Steve adjourned the meeting, leaving them all in a state of contemplative shock. One that did not melt in the slightest even two days on. Among themselves, the team had decided to hold their own discourse on that Friday, after they took some time to consider everything Rogers had put to them. The afternoon sun of the day could not filter into the interior room, all of them filing into Natasha's office to do so. Once the privacy controls were on, and Tony Stark had been connected to her wall screen (with the upgrade in his status, he was entitled to sit in and contribute on the decision), they all looked to one another. They were no closer to a decision than on Wednesday, and could not simply pick.

"So, should we do this by secret ballot, or—?" Scott suggested, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. On his end, Tony tilted his head, eyeballing the ceiling just off-screen for a few seconds.

"It'd be a little difficult to do all the way out here, but sure, I'm game for that," he agreed, with Wanda nodding as well from her perch in one of the visitor's chairs. The Vision stood behind her, one hand placed along the back of it and his electric blue eyes scanning from one person to the next. Bucky and Sam shared a glance, both feeling a touch awkward at their futures being discussed in such a way. Barnes shifted in his stance beside Natasha, and Sam stared down at the toe of his boot as he squirmed in his chair. The red-haired ex-assassin shook her head, hooking a thumb into a pocket on her jeans.

"I think the two of them should decide," she proposed instead. In her reasoning, a vote could end up being split, and could extend the decision beyond the period in which they were given to decide. As well as that, the fairness of such an endeavor would be called into question, especially when it came to member loyalty. Impartiality could be achieved, but she did not think it likely. Not with everything that had come before. Shrugging her shoulders, she announced, "I can be an Avenger, regardless of who is in charge on the field. I have worked with both, and am willing to do so, no matter who it is."

Stark's eyes ricocheted between her and Barnes, the intensity of it burning them both.

"Just because you can, Romanoff, doesn't mean we will," the billionaire muttered darkly. Though significant progress had been made since that fateful day in December, it was safe to say that Barnes and Tony were not friends. The evidence of the change in the ex-assassin was undeniable, his quick action in taking command and taking care of those affected in the last month supplemented by his mission work and repentance prior. Like a certain missus had said, it was not about forgetting the past, but moving on towards forgiveness that mattered. Still, it was obvious that they were barely friendly acquaintances, and no matter what was decided, it would likely remain that way.

"Tony, we cannot allow previous biases to color our decisions. That is why Ms. Romanoff suggested another course," the Vision remarked, his accented voice at once steadying and off-putting. Stark's gaze darted to him, and his mouth clamped shut as an eyebrow rose ever-so-slightly. Picking up on the physical cue (he was doing so well after a year of life, he thought to himself), the android pointed out, "None of us is a saint, not even me, and to act otherwise is foolish."

For a long moment, the billionaire looked to them all, his chosen teammates. Each one had blood on their hands, as well as he. Spying the brief flicker across his irises, Natasha inclined her chin, drawing his attention again.

"Sam and Bucky need to figure it out," she said, her tone gentling. A glance flashed sideways, a small smile granted when Sam looked up at her. Deftly, her hand unhooked from her pocket, sliding into Bucky's and squeezing it. "I'll abide by whatever's decided."

The others murmured in agreement with the proposal, and after chewing the inside of his cheek for a long moment, Stark huffed out a breath.

"...Fine. You better go, then," he said, flapping a hand at both Barnes and Wilson to get to it.

The two men looked at one another before silently exiting the room. The unspoken agreement for them to maintain the quiet until they were out of earshot was upheld, even as they made their way to an embankment of windows in a far hall. Sam took to pacing a patch of carpet, while Bucky settled his hip along one of the panes, his arms crossing and his brow furrowing in thought.

"Wasn't expecting that," he breathed after a few minutes, attempting to clear the reeling in his mind. It had been there since the moment Steve had announced his intentions, his choices for his replacement, and it had not abated in the slightest. Of all the things he had expected Rogers to plan for, he had not thought he would deal with anything of that caliber. He was honest enough with himself to acknowledge that part him would like nothing better than the chance to prove himself further. However, there was always his past to consider. It would follow him until the day he died, and it would be moronic to ignore it in the face of this opportunity. He did not consider his friend to be an idiot in the slightest, but somebody had to question his wishes, and if it had to be him, then so be it. Wilson's hands slid into his pockets, and he snorted.

"No kidding."

Barnes met his dark gaze, commiseration in their forms for a moment. Tapping a thumb against the pane, the rhythmic click of the metal soothed some of the whirlwind inside.

"How do we decide this?" he asked, wishing that his girl had not bucked the choice onto them. Making them choose between themselves seemed almost cruel. Particularly as he could barely fathom making the choice in the first place. "Sparring match, best of three gets it?"

The joking nature of his last words barely elicited a smile, from Wilson or from himself. It was the best he had to offer, though, at that moment. Sam's pacing went on for a bit, long enough for Barnes to actually stare out the window. The bright green of the trees and the grass met his gaze, the blue of the sky beyond marred by a few clouds here and there, and he exhaled slowly.

"Or..." Sam began, picking up the thread, "I rescind my nomination."

His pacing came to a full stop just as Bucky's head swiveled to look at him. It had happened so fast, it was a wonder that he did not have whiplash afterward.

"What?" he stammered, unable to believe what he had heard. Wilson was giving up his chance? Letting him take it? He couldn't process it, even as the other man nodded.

"You heard me. Dude, think about it for a second," he implored Bucky, his dark gaze unyielding as he pinned him in place with it. "Whether anybody else realizes it or not, you have been working towards this since the day you got away from HYDRA. Probably before that, too."

"There was a contingency, during the war," he confessed quietly, the long-buried memory rising up from the dregs of his mind. The planning room in London, the long face of the colonel and the stern expression of Agent Carter as Rogers explained the importance of having a reserve in case he died on the job, it all floated up then. Coughing, he murmured, "If Steve had...he would've passed it onto me. But that was then."

"And this is now. Bucky, look at your progress," Sam said, asserting his position on the matter. He knew it would be a hard sell, and so was prepared to do whatever he could to make the other man see his side. He knew that Barnes's self-worth would always, invariably, be tied into his identity in some way. It was best to point out the positive aspects of it, so he could see why Steve had ultimately chosen him as a candidate again. "Look how far you've come. You still have work to do, but you've already done a lot. You've stepped up, proven that you can do this. We've seen the reports, dude. Who did command fall to when Steve was down? Not me."

"You were unconscious..." Bucky tried to point out. He knew what Sam was trying to do, but there was merit in having Wilson take on the mantle of the captain. His loyalty, his courage...his stubborn ability to overlook the flaws when the attributes needed attention, they were good qualities. In his mind, Sam more than likely deserved it over him. However, instead of being allowed to continue, the other man cut him off.

"It was not me, or Natasha, or Stark. Fury didn't take control, and neither did Hill. It was you." Despite his own injuries and recovery, Sam had kept himself informed on the aftermath of the attack. Word had reached him of Barnes's efforts, his insistence as acting as the go-between, of actively participating in the rebuild wherever he could. Sighing low, Wilson scratched at his neck, ready to finish the argument. "No matter what you think of yourself, or your past, you have earned this. Now, I'm not gonna say I don't think the idea of being the guy on top isn't appealing, but ultimately, I don't need it. You do."

Stormy blue eyes stared at him as he strode forward, clapped his hand on the fellow's left shoulder. Every word that followed hit him hard and fast, but Sam refused to relent until he had said his piece.

"I'm the Falcon, and damn proud to be that. You were the Winter Soldier, but that isn't you any longer. You need this. You need to be the captain now, and not the soldier."

With a final tap, Wilson removed his hand, the finality in his tone permeating the air. While the honor and prestige would have been something he could take on, Sam was honest enough with himself to know that it was more than that. Being Captain America was more than a title, like Natasha had pointed out. It was about the person within rising to the challenges facing them, no matter how weak or broken they were, and choosing to fight for the right, anyway. As it was, he was already fighting well enough as himself. He honestly did not feel like he needed it. Not the way Bucky did. Minutes stretched as they stood there, miring in all that was left unsaid, the churning of the minds increasing with each passing second.

Finally, after coming out of his own musings, Bucky looked at Sam again, taking a deep breath before answering.

"...But could you stand taking orders from me?" he wondered, the barest hint of a smirk curving the corners of his mouth. Sam finally cracked one in return.

"What do you think, old man?" he retorted, snickering to himself as Bucky grumbled under his breath. When the joviality petered off, he extended his hand out to him. Taking it, Barnes shook Wilson's hand, the decision made and the deal sealed. The pair of them returned to Natasha's office, telling them the news. Stark had stared at them both, inevitably declaring that he would accept it, but only because it meant he could keep a closer eye on Barnes than before. The others were less opposed to the decision, and once they were all agreed, the two sergeants left again. Turning the corner, they could see through the walls of Steve's office, spying him at his desk with his phone coming down from his ear. Noticing them after a few minutes, he beckoned them to enter, the seriousness of their expressions matched by his.

"Guys?" he asked, blond eyebrow spiking, and Barnes inhaled sharply, preparing to take the plunge that would bring him into newer territory.

 **xXxXxXx**

Holly hummed under her breath as she stretched out on the couch, another round of pregnancy yoga finished that Friday evening. She had never been terribly partial to the exercise before the baby, but she reckoned she had to do something to keep herself limber enough and in check. It was quite a step down from her efforts two years prior, with the batting cage sessions and the jogs on treadmills, but it was safer for the little one that way. And better overall, given how much she was prone to eat in one sitting with him. The doctors Watson and Cho had thought that her increased appetite was above the average pregnant mother's, agreeing that it was most likely due to baby seemingly inheriting part of his father's metabolism. (It was either that, or she was being a pig, but they were polite enough not to put it that way.) Still, when it was all over, she was glad to be collapsed in the cushions, flicking the television off and swiping away the sweat on her brow. Having moved onto the seven-to-nine months portion of the DVD, it wasn't like going for the super-advanced poses of typical yoga, but she was carrying precious, heavy cargo. Her mat was kicked to the side, the chair she had used for balance pushed in front of the record player, and the coffee table was still flush against the entertainment system. Taking a swig out of her water bottle before dropping it onto the floor, she hiked up her shirt to cool off as she scrolled through her phone.

No new messages, no new emails. She did tap into the apps to double-check, lingering on a few specific ones. A tiny smile graced her lips as she looked at Kay's return message, her excuse for not coming out and joining her that time being an evening out with Sam. She didn't begrudge her friend that; the pair had finally started to work out the kinks that had stalled them in April, and were much happier because of it. Besides, she promised to bring her a treat the next time they had lunch together at the office as an apology. Not really necessary in her mind, but Holly wasn't about to turn down offered food. Beneath that was a string of texts from Sarah, confirming that the hook-up on her end was successful, and that Holly would be able to tap into the bachelorette party shenanigans the following night. Due to her going on maternity leave at the end of the next month, Holly was neck deep in projects at the base on top of making finishing touches to her novel. It would be nearly impossible for her to get away, and so she had been forced to make an alternate plan in regards to planning Sarah's hen night. With the help of her friend's fiance, they were able to get a web-cam hooked up and ready for part of the events. She couldn't make the trip down to Virginia for the weekend, for the dinner and the bar they would hit, but she would be on tap to man the games at her hotel room. That, and to watch Sarah's face when the male dancer showed up (she hoped it would measure up to the price she'd paid to hire the guy for her best friend). Chuckling to herself as she pictured the visual, it took her a moment to notice Steve watching her. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and a small smile playing over his lips.

"Steve?" she squeaked, sitting up and pulling her shirt back down (it was aired out enough, and she didn't like any extra attention to be paid to the stretchmarks now littering her skin). As was common in their lives, she had beaten him home after work. Given the message he'd sent her earlier, she'd assumed he would be back much later than he was. Swinging her bare feet onto the floor, she raked a hand through her messy hair, the sweaty ponytail tightened after she dropped her phone in her lap. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I got that," he murmured, smirking slightly. It faded after a moment, his blue eyes staring at a point over her head. Eventually, he shook his head, as if forcing himself back into the present. Coming forward, he stepped over her crumpled mat and sat down beside her. Meeting her curious expression, he relayed, "They, they decided. On who will become field leader."

Her eyebrows inclined. So that was why he'd stayed on later at the base. Most likely had to get things prepped and ready for the days to come. There was going to be a mountain of paperwork involved, as well as meetings with the secondary team and Hawley, and the lawyers would have to be contacted due to licensing (all the team members had rights now, earning an income off of their "brands." Most of them chose to donate a good portion of the excess to charities, her husband included), and other matters. Having been told this, Holly was surprised that Steve and the others would be starting much earlier than anticipated.

"Already?" she muttered aloud, her brow furrowing as she pondered it. "All of them came to an agreement?"

Steve's eyes flicked away, a small grimace upon his lips for a brief few seconds.

"Well, if not total agreement, they at least came to an understanding," he explained. Though Tony had shown marked progress in his dealings with them, it still took convincing to accept the choice made between Sam and Bucky. Not as much as it would have taken several months ago, if he had presented the plans then, but some. For his part, the billionaire had declared himself as part-time, and that their choice was theirs, in the end. He would stick around to make sure that they never regretted making the choice. It would be tough to forge ahead as a team, but he would not stop them.

"And?" Holly prompted him, his silence stretching on too long for her liking.

"It's Bucky," he breathed, his voice still airy. The shock at the rapidity of the decision had not quite worn off. Little by little, the situation was dawning on him, the plan coming fully to fruition in reality as well as in his mind. Leaning back into the couch cushion, he sighed. "At the end of the month, he'll be Captain America."

"That's...it's...it's hard to picture, the title belonging to somebody else," she stated plainly, a finger coming up and trailing over the scar on her forehead. Steve would no longer be the captain. The Star Spangled Man with a Plan was passing the shield onto someone else, officially. Even though she knew of the endeavor before he put it to the team, it still was a lot to take in. Gently, he clasped her hand, pulling it away from her scar and resting it in her own lap.

"It will be a little strange for awhile, but it's for the best," he said, firmness in his tone. She looked at him, studied his face for any flickers of hesitation or doubt.

"You sure?" she wondered, not for the first time. It was another thing he would be giving up, and not just for himself. However, he held her gaze, dipping his chin; he had considered it worth the cost that time.

"Yes."

They sat in the quiet that followed for a minute or two, with Holly reaching out and idly picking a couple stray hairs off his shirt. Her lips began to shape into a smile as she did so.

"Well, if anybody is due for a promotion, I would think it would be you," she declared when she'd finished her task, earning a snort from him. "After waiting for one since 1945."

"If you wanna get technical, it's been since '43," he retorted, the memory of the day of his true promotion coming through for a few seconds. Turning his mind back to the present, he went on, "It's certainly one way to look at it. Even if it's just a non-military rank change."

That was true; as far as his standing in the army went, he would remain a captain. For a moment, he imagined how Colonel Phillips would have reacted to his artificial title. Gruff muttering and an eye roll no doubt, before sending him out on a mission and pointedly calling him by the rank he himself had bestowed upon him in Italy.

"Just a rank change," she mumbled, shaking her head. It was more than that, but as they were both aware of that fact, she decided not to push it. Instead, she shrugged and said, "You'll still be there."

"More importantly, I'll be here." He tipped her chin up with a finger, tapping the skin lightly as their gazes locked. "Think you can put up with me on a more regular basis?"

Holly squinted at Steve thoughtfully, tilting her head to the left and struggling to suppress a grin.

"Dunno. What's my incentive if I do?"

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, taking a moment to consider the answer. Playfulness lit up his irises when he looked back at her.

"Well, I love you. Is that enough?" he asked, his gaze warming further as it ran over her. Taking a hand in his and lacing the fingers together, he shrugged when she did not answer right away. "If not, I'll throw in being around to take out the garbage more often."

"Sold," she blurted immediately, sealing the deal with a peck on the lips and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Chuckling as he held her close, he felt the smile curving her lips as she pressed a kiss against the column of his neck. Resting her head in the crook, he caught the muffled murmur as she continued, "Your first offer was more than enough, by the way. Love you, too."

Wanting to sink deeper into her embrace, he was caught off-guard when she suddenly withdrew. As her hands stabilized along the edge of the couch and she did the two-part shuffling push up, he spiked an eyebrow.

"Where are you going?"

Mentally cheering herself for performing the action so swiftly, she grinned over her shoulder at him as she walked towards the arch and into the kitchen.

"Gonna get the top tier from the freezer," she said, the matter-of-fact tone of it making the eyebrow spike higher. Making her way to the appliance, she began to rifle through the frozen meals and vegetables within. In a small, airtight container in the back, was the top portion of their wedding cake. It was saved for a different purpose entirely, but she could not think of anything better to commemorate the moment with. Pulling it out, she removed the lid and began to shake it a little to loosen it as she raised her voice. "Granted, we'll have to wait until it totally defrosts, but I think it's worth it."

She caught his muted, humor-filled scoff, wriggling it free to put on a proper plate as he called out, "Even though our anniversary isn't for another ten days?"

Inwardly, she gave him brownie points for that, bringing the plate over to the island and resting it on top. Tugging on the plastic surrounding the confection, she gingerly placed it on the plate and examined it. The tier was devoid of decoration, save for the drops of icing ringing it. A soft grin danced over her mouth as she spotted the slight indentation on it, where the topper bearing their initials had sat. Tapping a thumb against it, the iciness of it pierced her for a second or two.

"Trial run, to see if we'll need to pick up something else for the day of," she began to explain, leaving the frozen cake to thaw on its own. Returning to the living room, she went behind the sofa, resting an elbow on it and trailing a finger along a cushion. Canting her head, she also confessed, "But also celebration. A beer after dinner isn't enough, I think, and we don't have any other treats right now. And...and you're doing this for..."

She trailed off, the sentimentality of the moment finally catching up with her. Swallowing hard and willing herself not to give in (she had cried more often in the last four months than she had in the last four years, and frankly she was tired of it), she failed to notice as he rose from his seat, maneuvering around the furniture and stopping behind her. One forearm laid over her collarbone, drawing her back against him as his palm cupped over her shoulder. The other hand traced along the swell of her stomach. It lingered there for several moments before rising up, reaching the flyaway hair by her ear and tucking it back.

"Alright, top tier it is, sweetheart," he conceded, nuzzling into her hair for couple seconds before pulling back. Mildly, he suggested that they kill the time in separate pursuits: he would scrounge up some dinner, and she would get in a good shower that she clearly needed. Swatting his arm, she stuck her tongue out at his teasing smile as she went to do that, a chuckle or two floating down the stairwell as she headed for the bathroom. The stray tears that had wormed their way up into her eyes fell with the hot water, washed down the drain. Cleaned up and changed into something less...sweaty...she meandered back to him, where two plates were loaded with leftovers at the table, the air conditioning clicking and blowing to fend off the rise of the early summer heat. It took all of their time in dinner and a few hours for the cake to defrost enough for them to cut off a couple of sections—aided in part by precise and careful heating in the microwave. Once they'd hacked off their pieces, they stood at the counter, staring down at the confection and wondering silently who would start. Glimpsing him out the corner of her eye, she nodded once before driving a fork into the cake, bringing out a small chunk to begin with.

"Happy pre-anniversary, and congrats, _Commander,_ " Holly toasted, holding out her loaded utensil out towards him with a smile. The touch of his new title being added made him duck his head briefly, and she giggled. "To many more years."

"To the future," Steve returned, raising his fork and tapping it gently against hers. Salute made, they both indulged. All in all, it wasn't bad for being frozen for almost a full year (and slightly microwaved, but still), and so he dug in for another bite. Chewing around his renewed mouthful, he mumbled, "You're still gonna have to wait for your gift, by the way."

"Oh, crap," she groaned playfully, rolling her eyes at his smug grin and taking a second bite for herself. In that way, the evening passed, both man and woman looking ahead to the days to come.

* * *

 **A/N:** To the future, indeed...

Just a friendly reminder that the section with Secretary Ross was written with little understanding of world politics and bureaucracy. I understand that what is being requested of him would generally require several motions, months of debate, and mountains of legal actions to consider, but this is just the beginning of the process. And with a little wheel-greasing, the whole thing could be expedited. Just take it all with the sense of suspending your disbelief, as ever.

Bucky becoming Captain America has been the plotted endgame since the beginning of this story (since the end of _The Eleventh Hour_ , truth be told). And while I respect the fact that some will not agree with that, in the end, it will not change as far as this universe is concerned. This is Bucky's redemption, and he will finally step over the threshold to become more. And Steve will become Commander Rogers...taking inspiration from the Secret Avengers, there, though not in respect to taking the field like he used to. It's also my headcanon that Steve got a true promotion after rescuing the troops at the factory. I don't recall at this moment if that is ever confirmed in canon (other than the one that was bestowed upon him for his stage days), but given that he's called Captain Rogers on occasion, I think that is the case.

Next chapter, we get to see both him and Bucky take on their new titles. ;-)

With the tone of this chapter, it probably is raising a few questions in your minds. One of which is probably: are we getting close to the end? And another being: is Holly gonna have the baby already?!

I'll level with you guys—the answer is yes, to both of those questions. The end is coming very soon to _By First Light_ , in roughly three chapters or so. Holly will be having the baby before this is over, as well. However, I will tell you that...I don't intend this to be the last story for the growing Rogers family, nor the changing Avengers.

Yes, a fourth installment is planned, wherein the plot is going to be a lot looser, sort of like interconnecting one-shots that will take place over the first year of Holly and Steve's son's life. The plot will be looser due to the fact that I have been going for two years (with very few breaks) and working out lines and connecting them, and frankly, I need to relax a bit. I intend for it to be a lighter load, though I don't intend to sacrifice effort or anything on my part. It will be more along the lines of family/friendship, with romance, drama, and action thrown in on occasion. Essentially, it will be more slice-of-life in nature than anything else. It will center on Steve and Holly, and their little boy, but I will not neglect the others while I'm writing it. Seriously, I intend to include the Avengers of this expanded universe, too. That's in prep mode at the moment, but I wanted you all to know that it is coming. Title is pending; I'll have more info to impart later on that and other things.

Lastly: I hope you're all doing well. I know some of you have started a new semester as school recently (whether it is secondary or post-secondary), while others have gotten busy with your lives for various other reasons. I sincerely hope each and every one of you is okay, and if not, you are finding a way through it to become okay. I do care about you guys, truly.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.)

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	31. Chapter 31

Independence Day dawned, the heat around the base rising as the sun did. It hovered around the Rogers house as well, though it was cool on the inside. However, for the couple dwelling within, they would not stay in it. Having squirreled their way out of attending any formal functions for the date the previous year due to their honeymoon, Holly and Steve had conceded to the planned day's events that were to happen at the base. Due to the efforts of the agents, and to a number of the organizations that worked in conjunction with the team, a sort of picnic and grill-out was scheduled for the afternoon and evening. A few sponsored booths were to be set up in the field near the base, tents set up for shielding against the glare of the sun and to house other forms of entertainment, despite the holiday being on a Monday that year. On the positive side, they were not forced to wear formal clothing, as they had in D.C. two years ago; she would have hated swelling up and sweating to death if she had been forced to do so. No, the cotton maternity dress she picked would do well enough, though she wished she could talk Steve into wearing a pair of shorts (it was an absolute crime to hide his legs, in her opinion, but he still overrode her objections and put on the khakis he'd picked. At least she got him into the button-up tee without issue).

The set-up, under the direction of Maria and Sam, had gone smoothly that morning, with relatively few bumps on the road. Food stations were primed and ready to go, hired helpers getting a start on it. A good portion of the adult were indulging in the beverages provided, those not on mission indulging in play as baseballs, footballs, and frisbees were tossed around. Music pumped over a stereo system, some ballads interspersed with rock and pop standards from a laptop hook-up nearby. A good number of the agents were already roaming the grounds by the time they had arrived, the office workers who had remained in the area mingling as well as they parked and made their way over to the festivities. Red, white, and blue bunting dotted the shaded areas, tables and chairs wrapped in patriotic splendor as well. Taking her hand in his, Steve led Holly over to the one claimed by the team, each one greeting them pleasantly in turn. Not all of them could be there, of course; Tony had sent his well-wishes, but would remain in the city with Pepper and Rhodey, and Scott had taken some time off to see his daughter for the holiday, but the majority of them were present.

And there was a decent amount of children running around, more than Holly had assumed there would be. It would have been ignorant of her to suppose that none of the people working for the Avengers had families of their own, but she had not thought so many of them would. So many of them were putting aside their roles as technicians, scientists, agents, to simply be mothers and fathers that day. With young children, at that. A hoard of little ones under the age of ten (future friends for hers? She hoped so). Little kids ran around with streamers and bubble wands, painted shields and other toys in their grasps as they weaved in and out of the adults. Some of them broke free of their parents, running up to their favorite Avengers and begging for signatures, for hugs, for them to join in the fun with them. It was amusing and delightful, watching the battle-hardened members being drawn into games of tag and hide-and-seek. Wanda, despite the stand-offish nature she exuded, seemed to take great joy in chasing kids around in Duck-Duck-Goose (Duck-Duck-Grey Duck, her stubborn brain corrected). Even Bucky was approached, with Natasha never too far behind, the kids fascinated by "the guy with the metal arm" and how good he was at being the seeker. Kay, who had decided to stay in the area as well, joined her, dark eyes bright and seemingly happier than she had been in months. Tapping her arm, the blue-haired woman pointed and laughed as Sam was inevitably dog-piled by a few boys who had wanted to toss a football around. It warmed her heart even further when she turned and watched Steve get ringed by a group, one of the smaller ones tugging on his hand and asking something. The small grin as he bent down, nodded and gave his answer, made her smile, hands bracing along her pregnant swell and fueling images of her husband as the father he would become in a few short weeks. Spying a few of the mothers, some of them expectant just like her, she thought it would be best to speak with them, gauge their own personal reactions to pregnancy. To their families changing, and their lives becoming entirely different from what they were before.

Before that could happen, though, she heard the tap of a microphone through some hastily assembled speakers around an hour into the endeavor. Glancing over, she spotted Sam as he held it up to his lips, barking out greetings and gaining the attention of those gathered. Beside her, she felt Kay stiffen, catching the slight smirk that danced across her lips as she looked out the corner of her eye. Wilson's innocent expression was off-set by the devious glint in his eye, the wry turn of his lips as he called attention to the fact that it was not merely a celebration of the country's independence that they were remarking upon, but a birthday as well. Gaze widening, Holly had to stifle her laughter when she spotted Steve's aghast expression as he realized what was happening. The children around him started to tug at his hands, pull him forward as Sam waved them on, directed them to a table in the center of the area. In the midst of the hubbub and play, he and the others on the team had managed to sneak a massive sheet cake out of the base, complete with candles already placed in it. At Kay's prompting, Holly was brought out of her seat, meeting him halfway. An eyebrow spiked as she stood at his side, a suspicious glint in his baby blues. Struggling to keep her composure, she merely cupped a hand in the air. The details, such as the art nouveau shield design on the cake, were left to the others; she had simply given her approval, or so she would claim later on.

He knew that she wouldn't let his birthday go unremarked upon; none of them would let that slide.

Taking the lighter from Sam when it was proffered, she implored the children to back up, not wanting them to get burned as she lit the candles. Soon enough, the heat of the flickering flames were rising to join the summer swelter, prompting them all to engage in a round of the birthday song before much longer. Pink burned the tips of Steve's ears, but he managed a smirk as the crowd around him cheered at the end and shouted for him to blow them out.

"What'd you wish for?" she teasingly whispered under the applause, gladly going into her husband's embrace when he had finished. A chuckle rumbled in his throat, the arm around her waist tightening as he held her.

"I didn't. I have what I want already," Steve replied, giving her a peck on the lips, much to the disgust of the boys and girls still ringing them. The parents near at hand gathered up their children, admonishing them for their behavior and getting them into a messy queue for cake distribution. At once, the Avengers at hand gathered closer to the table, starting to pull candles and prepare the treat for cutting.

"Happy birthday, old man," Sam said, turning the microphone off and swooping in to do his part. Nudging Steve with his elbow, he continued, "Ninety-eight and counting."

The blond man merely grunted, the smirk on his face not dimming in the slightest. For her part, Holly snorted.

"Chronologically," she said. Off the looks being shot at her, she shrugged and pointed out, "If you're going by physical and mental age, he's about thirty-two."

She let that sink in for a few seconds, the music resuming in the background filling the space.

Steve shot her a wink as he retrieved the knife that was resting nearby. "Roughly."

"Whatever justifies it, right?" Bucky grunted, the shadows in his blue eyes lifting as he smirked across the table at them, helping Natasha prep the paper plates.

"Like you have any room to talk, Grandpa Barnes," Holly snarked back, the corner of her mouth lifting as she cut a glance between him and the redheaded woman to his left. Not perturbed in the least, he let his smile truly grow then, and dipped his head. Slowly, the cake was cut and distributed to all who wished to indulge, the afternoon's events resuming around them. Laughter and play of the children continued, Holly wandered over to a few of the mothers, determined to not allow herself to be exclusively isolated, and the female Avengers dispersed as well. The remaining males were left to their own devices, a baseball retrieved and tossed around as they got more food and drinks. The remaining male Avengers, plus the android who identified as such.

The Vision's electric blue eyes scanned over the crowd, the skies, spotting no trouble. Tapping into the security systems (as was his habit), he found that all was well in and out of the facility. A few clouds rolled over, and there were a few people darting off towards the trees of the surrounding woods, but there was no danger to be had. Boisterous humans aside, it was rather...peaceful. In comparison to his first, at least. The previous year had been nothing but confusion and bursting rockets overhead, the wonder of it being how anyone could stand that amount of noise even for such a short time.

Still, it was tolerable, as a certain auburn-haired young woman had distracted him with her own trite observations.

"Another Fourth of July," Sam proclaimed, drinking directly from the beer bottle he had fetched earlier. Lifting it in a mock toast, the others tipped their chins in acknowledgment. For his part, the Vision glanced sideways at him.

"Astute assessment of the date," he muttered, softening the words with a slight grin. Steve smirked into his own cup as his friend met his gaze (Barnes had long since disappeared, but the Vision had tracked him to be somewhere on the property, at least).

"Caustic observations from the android," Wilson stated, a hint of pride in his tone. Raising his cup, he saluted the Vision. "You've come a long way, pal."

The android in question cupped a hand in the air. "I suppose this is one of those instances where social norms dictate I nod and let the comment go unremarked upon?"

Rogers flicked his gaze to him, bemusement decorating his features. "Generally, yes."

Sam chuckled under his breath, taking another sip of his drink. "He's come a long way, and yet, at the same time, hasn't changed a bit."

"That would imply the need," an accented voice cut in, causing the Vision to latch his attention onto the intruder. No, not an intruder, not at all, he corrected himself as he stared down at Wanda Maximoff. The young woman was, for once, not arrayed solely in dark colors. Pleased that her attire would not cause her to overheat, he almost missed her quiet request. "Can we talk for a moment?"

Unaware of the sets of eyes darting between them, he tilted his head in confusion.

"But we are already...oh," he exclaimed, belatedly understanding what she was truly asking. Dipping his chin, he proceeded to follow her across the grounds, the murmurs of his fellows echoing in his head as he went. The shouts and crows of the gathered people melted as they made their way into the base, stopping just inside the long hall on the ground level. Cautiously, the Vision examined her, noting that nothing was amiss, physically—not even a thread was loose on her pale green blouse. Linking his hand behind his back, he waited for her to speak, watching as she twisted her hands together and focused out the wall of windows. Nervous, anxious, but why? Time to gather adequate data, he supposed. "What did you want to talk about, Wanda?"

Jarred out of her reverie, she focused on the rings on her fingers, twisting them idly as she gathered her thoughts.

"Just...I have realized that there is a lot I have never really thanked you for," she told him, causing him to blink. She wanted to thank him, and that was all? He suspected there was more to it, but he deemed it necessary to not interrupt. Wanda, he had found, was forthcoming with answers if one merely gave her the time to express them. "You've really have been a good friend to me over the last year, to start with. Even with everything that had happened. With who I am."

Inwardly, he pondered her words. Ever since his birth, he had known of her, but it took rescuing her and coming into the team's fold to truly know her. Despite the simple trappings—young woman, sister, Avenger—there was more to Wanda than met the eye, and he was not simply considering her powers. The little things, the way she chose her words, deliberated over moves, the indulgences she gave him and the laughter that followed, those were not easily gleaned. He had learned of them, though. He had given her the chance to show him, just as she had given him the chance to grow beside her.

"As you have with me," he returned, unable to stay silent any longer. Focusing on a point over her head, he muttered, "Perhaps it should be me thanking you. You've taught me so much, Wanda. So many things that I may have been able to find out on my own, but did not have to."

A devilish smile graced her lips. "Like how much paprika is too much for mushroom soup?"

Ruefully, he grinned back, ducking his head almost bashfully. "Yes, among other things."

"Still, I wanted to find the time to thank you. Properly," she stated, her voice lowering somewhat, as if she feared being overheard. Despite himself, the Vision mirrored her as she stepped closer, drawn into the seriousness of her gaze. "For everything you've done for me. I'm sorry it had to wait for so long, but I wanted to be sure."

The Vision leaned forward a bit, his head canting in denial. "It was no trouble, really. I'm always happy to—"

He was unprepared for what had come next, as rose upon her toes. The press of her lips to his manufactured ones took him aback, all sensors and synapses in his system firing off at once. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating as she did so. And somewhere, deep within, he felt it. That...electrical impulse, the one that had been there since the first time they'd spoken, since they had come together as teammates and tentative friends, much stronger now than it had been in those days. In the blink of an eye, every moment of their interactions, ever dinner made, every training session, every instance of her presence meeting with his came rushing to the fore, and, and...it was beyond his imagining. And in the blink of an eye, it was over, Wanda pulling away from him before he had the chance to properly respond. Looking down at her, he spotted her blown pupils, the aura of scarlet burning out in place of the sliver of green irises. Deep breaths rocked her chest into his, her warmth increased despite his cool touch. Touching his fingers to his lips, he could not help but stare down at her, wide-eyed...and _wanting_.

"You kissed me."

Her thumb stroked over his jaw, and she nodded, unashamed. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"But I am...and you are..." he struggled to explain, struggled to adequately express himself. There were so many reasons why what had happened, should not have happened. That it was beyond his capabilities, that he was unable to return her affections. And yet, it had happened, and he did feel for her. He _felt_ , and it was because of her. Her hand came up then, cupping his cheek, the matching mix of emotions in her face bringing him out of his mind.

"I know," she said, firm and unwavering. Still, she stood there, looked upon him and the uncertainty of their lives, and reached out for him. Carefully, she swallowed, her palms going to his shoulders and knitting into the fabric of his shirt. "We can figure it out, one step at a time."

Slowly, carefully, he reached up, loosening her grip on him. However, instead of dropping them, he found his fingers lacing with hers, the synthetic feel of his grip mixed with her flesh awakening him further.

"I...would like that," he told her, meeting her hopefulness with his own. "Very much."

Smiling broadly, Wanda nodded, stretching up again to peck his lips. That time, he was prepared to respond, the whirs and clicks inside his head rocketing faster than he had ever known them to before. The heat in his circuits jumped, and if he had a heartbeat, he knew it would have been thumping along with hers—which he could hear as he curled his arms around her and held her tightly. Several long minutes passed before the embrace was broken, the younger Maximoff taking the Vision's hand and walking them out of the hall, out onto the field again. Unbeknownst to them, an audience had stumbled upon their private discussion, a pair who had been just as intent to find some time to themselves in the midst of the afternoon's events. Hidden further up the hall and between the beams, the intruding pair watched it all unfold, blinking when the android and the young woman walked away, hand in hand. When the door to the outside clicked into place, the redhead leaned back against her own lover, his metal and flesh arms curling around her as they both let out slow breaths.

"That is an interesting combination," Natasha noted with amusement. However, there wasn't a trace of surprise in her voice. She had suspected for quite some time that the Vision and the Scarlet Witch would progress to that point, having been fussing around each other for well over a year. Still, it was one thing to speculate, and another to see the evidence with her own eyes. Bucky's chest filled, pressing into her before he let the deep breath out.

"No more interesting than us," he whispered, his grasp tightening the slightest bit. Smirking to herself, Natasha turned around, looping her arms around his neck.

"Suppose you might be right," she agreed, reclaiming the private moment for themselves and kissing him soundly. With the training and the mission work resuming, with him being prepped to take over the role Steve was leaving behind, it did not leave them much time to be together. She understood how seriously he was taking his change in leadership, in shaping himself up to adequately represent the name he would be bearing, and she did not begrudge him that. Still, she savored those quiet, unbroken moments when they could steal them, glad to have him all to herself for a spell. Fingers tangled into her hair, angling her head so he could kiss her deeply, the other arm locking her curves against him. Breaking apart to catch their breath, he braced his forehead against hers, swallowing with a little difficulty.

"Well, nice as this is, I think we've been away for long enough," he murmured, haltingly removing his arm from around her back. Giving her the chance to step away, he beamed brightly as an impish glint reflected across his gaze. "Don't want them getting suspicious, sugar."

Rolling her eyes, she still grinned as she took his hand, following the path of their compatriots out into the open field and rejoining them. It was true, Bucky had had ulterior motives when he dragged Natasha away from the gathering, requiring her help with a sort of delivery. Specifically, requiring her skill at overriding access points to allow him to make said delivery. With the task completed, there was nothing left to do but execute the second part, which involved sending Wilson inside at his request. The other man, whose only part of the plan was to make the initial discovery, had eyed them warily, but went along with it.

That, however, did not happen for at least a couple more hours, when the activities of the day were starting to wind down. Holly had taken a seat again, water in hand as Kay sipped a beer in her honor, the two women discussing favorite attributes of television characters ("Yeah, I mean, Sam's got the puppy-dog eyes, but have you _seen_ Dean?"). Anything to get some of the horror stories that some of the expectant mothers had shared with her out of her mind. She wasn't sure if talking about a pair of brothers who regularly splashed supernatural blood and gore was any better, but at least she wasn't inwardly panicking about whether or not her labor would end similarly. Before she could further elaborate her favoritism for the one with light eyes and a martyr complex, she found the plastic chair beside her being occupied. It was Steve, a wrapped present now settled in his lap. It was decently sized, red paper and gold ribbon surrounding it. Tilting her head to the side, she stared at it.

"What is that?" she wondered, catching the flicker in his irises and stemming his remark swiftly. "No smart-ass answers, please."

The smarmy grin on his face bled back into contemplation, and he lifted a shoulder.

"It was left in the doorway of my office. Sam brought it out for me, didn't want me to leave it behind."

Holly hummed under her breath. She knew that his friends had gotten him a few presents, but those had been gathered in a box and hidden in the downstairs closet days ago. She couldn't have missed one, could she?

"That narrows it down to about ten people who could've dropped it, minus the janitorial staff," she mumbled, inspecting it for a tag and finding none. Spying the eagerness that lay behind the contemplation, she snickered at him. "You didn't want to check the security tapes?"

"It cleared the scans, apparently," he said, sliding a finger under the ribbon on the side. It calmed the spark of fear that spiked through her a few seconds ago, though she continued to eye it distrustfully. His half-smile cropped up, and he went on, "I decided it could afford to be a surprise."

Well, if he wanted that, far be it from her to take it away from him. Canting her head, she flapped her fingers at the present, shooing him onward.

"You gonna open it or not?"

"Alright, bossy," he chided her jokingly. Carefully prying the tape away, he lifted off the wrapping paper, setting it off to the side as he examined the box in his hands. "It's...oh, geez."

The exuberance on his face drained slightly, while Holly barely managed to clamp a hand over her mouth. Several seconds passed before she felt she was stable enough to speak again, Kay spiking an eyebrow but not saying anything.

"It's a fondue pot. Huh," she announced, struggling to keep the corners of her mouth still. The tremor of laughter quavered in her throat as she looked upon the gift. Back when they had first started dating, when they inevitably had to discuss sex and whether or not they were ready for it, Steve had referenced it in a...somewhat non-conventional way. Evidently "fondue" had quite a different meaning to him, one that his friends back in the day took delight in teasing him with on occasion. However, Holly was not aware of another person nowadays who knew what that meant. No one, except for...

She glanced up at Steve, watching as his eyes narrowed. Looking over, she caught Bucky Barnes giving them both a clipped nod, his face impassive as he sipped from a red Solo cup. She detected the hint of a smirk playing around his lips as he drank, but could not confirm it. Her husband, however, could.

"Bucky," he grumbled under his breath. Setting the box down between their chairs, he rose up. "Excuse me."

Her eyebrows inclined, and she snatched at his wrist. The look on his face was one she recognized all too well; she had seen it on her brother's face, on her sister's, when she'd pissed them off and were about to make her pay for it. She had no doubt in her mind that Steve was about to do the same for his best friend.

"Where are you going?" she asked him, more as a courtesy and an invitation to change his course at the last second. He patted her hand briefly, a small, strained grin twisting his mouth as he pulled away from her.

"Just gonna have a little chat with 'im."

"Steve..." she tried to stop him, sighing under her breath as he merely held up a one-minute finger and kept walking. Kay shook her head, flapping for her to go after him silently. Rolling her eyes, she scooted forward in her chair, pushing herself up. Grabbing a nearby water bottle and following him with a wearied expression, she muttered, "Might as well get ringside seats."

It took her a few moments to catch up, but by that time Steve and Bucky had moved past the verbal debate and were taken turns slapping at each other. It escalated into grappling, with Bucky wrapping an arm around Steve's neck and getting him into a headlock. His free fist, the metal one came down, grinding into the blond man's hair with rebukes about "getting over it" falling out of his mouth.

"Good to know noogies are timeless," Natasha said out the corner of her mouth when Holly paused beside her. She should have known that Bucky was going to try and do something like this, had suspected it to be the case, but had let it happen, anyway. Oh, well, nothing for it now, she told herself. The two women, along with the others nearby, watched as the commander thrust his hands up and broke the headlock. Swiftly, he tackled the new captain to the ground, each now attempting to pin the other and make him eat dirt. For her part, the ex-assassin looked utterly unimpressed, sipping from both her cup and the one her companion had abandoned. "Wonder when they'll move onto wedgies."

Shaking her head, Holly shrugged a shoulder. "These are grown men, leaders and soldiers. One is the father of my unborn child."

Natasha raised her cup, tipping her chin as Steve managed to plant a knee on Bucky's back, driving him down. Both women winced, and the others around them crowed out in sympathy.

"And yet, both are still eternally five years old," she groused, a finger rubbing at her temple. Suddenly, a bunch of the younger children had found a second wind, the ones still playing around the field rushing over and piling on top of the two wrestling men. At once, Steve separated from Bucky, letting himself be tackled and pinned, his grunts turning into loud laughs. The brunet man was less encumbered by the kids, but he had a fair share of them trying to engage him.

"We've picked well, haven't we?" the brunette to her right mused, the deadpan expression on her face giving way to a small smile. Arching a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, Natasha looked over as Bucky extended his hand to his friend, both of them sharing a clap on the shoulder as they started herding the children back to their parents. Catching her eye, he let his expression gentle further, the false gruffness for the kids melting the tiniest bit. A sweet, bitter twist wrenched at her heart, but she could only allow herself to swallow and grin back at him.

"Arguably...yes," she agreed, her grin becoming more genuine as Holly tapped her water bottle against her cup in a salute. Their alliance was further solidified as they drank, the final toast given as the Independence Day shenanigans wore down. All things considered, they had chose well, she told herself as the evening started to fall. The families started to disperse, separating to go into the nearby town for any fireworks displays (for those who could tolerate them), the clean-up being relegated to happen the following morning. As a metal hand threaded with hers, pulling her out and away from the others again, she mentally noted that she could not let herself forget how well she had done for herself, despite everything.

 **xXxXxXx**

The ring of gunfire echoed in his ears, but he did not pause in his offensive push. Ducking, he slid underneath a trashed truck, coming out on the other side relatively unscathed. Raising his shield, he deflected the bullets as they followed him, the sparks of ricocheting metal flashing as they landed and flew away. Harrumphing, Captain America shuffled in his crouch, bright eyes darting around the terrain. The grunts left on the ground level were the last of the squad he had chosen to take down himself, the other Avengers grouped up elsewhere in the facility. The smell of dirt and blood wafted into his nose, combining with the metallic, artificial smell of the guns that were turned onto him and the smoke of the Jeep flaming several feet away. They were hidden well, the shadows of the night concealing all but the spit of their guns. It was a sticky position to be in, but he had no other choice at the moment.

Bucky would find a way out of it, he had to. There was too much riding on the situation for him to call a forfeit. Not that he would, anyway, but it was making things difficult.

However, difficult had been what he was expecting from the get-go, since Steve had called them all in for an emergency conference that Friday afternoon.

"Got a situation cropping up in Eastern Europe," the new commander had reported bluntly as they all gathered. The high definition display on the wall behind him lit up, the photo of a two-story, whitewashed building flickering into view. Accompanying shots of darkly-dressed insurgents flitted after it, heavy machinery and weapons at their disposal as they were fortifying the entrance of the place. It appeared to be situated in a downtown area, putting the surrounding neighborhood at risk. Barnes frowned as he realized that the potential for casualties had risen, one the Steve mirrored. "Evidently, some of Zemo's army didn't get the memo two months ago."

"Details?" Bucky asked on behalf of the team, arms crossed and seriousness in his pose. There, Maria stepped up beside the commander, the delivered intelligence from the helicarrier and some of the spies across the pond in hand. It appeared that a contingent was being housed in case the initial wave in May had been broken, a squadron poised to continue Zemo's good work. With most of Chapman's team scattered around on separate missions, it was up to them to head into Romania, corner the dissenters in their hideout (Barnes found himself thanking the powers that were for the spies that Fury had sent out after them), and take care of them once and for all. It would not be the end of it all, by any means, but once the final band of troops were squashed, the other matters of the world could be attended to. Absorbing the information presented, Bucky listened with half an ear as Rogers gave orders.

"Call-ins every fifteen minutes, drones will be patched and on standby. Chapman's team will be alerted and called in for back-up, as well as Tony. Get in, take 'em out, and go," he instructed, the baritone of his voice unyielding. Tipping his head in Bucky's direction, he murmured, "Any further instructions will be given as-needed by the captain."

After a beat of silence, the others nodded their compliance. The title, despite having been used and applied to him during training sessions for the past four weeks, was still jarring even to him. It was the first time it had been used outside those sessions, outside the minor missions he had taken in between. It was time now, to step into the role that had been bequeathed to him; this mission marked the beginning of the new era. He only hoped he would not start it off on a sour note.

Uncrossing his arms, Steve gestured towards the door, his stoic expression unwavering.

"Go to it, Avengers."

Thus dismissed, Barnes jogged down to the uniform lock-up, silent as the others went to suit up as well. Stepping inside the small space, he stared at the armor that had been constructed for his new role. Unlike Steve, who had taken to an actual armored appearance, he had work with the designers to select a sleeker look for his suit. The titanium weave within the microfiber was thin, but it held up remarkably well in testing. It was the same microfiber that was used for the Hulk's pants, though altered enough to deflect bullets and knives as opposed to sizing up and down. Midnight blue from chest to greaves, red and white panels crossed down his stomach. Chest to shoulders was navy, a white star with points extending to the edges of a circle provided extra protection. Instead of a separate helmet, he had chosen an attached masked cowl, comm links woven into it and settling directly over his ears as he pulled it up. Once he gotten changed (and made sure the A on the cowl was centered on his forehead), a belt pack was fitted around his hips, parts for a collapsible rifle secreted away as well as other odds and ends. High holster on, followed by boots and gloves, knives hidden inside greaves and gauntlets. Lastly, he palmed the polished disk hanging from the hook on the wall. The shield, Steve's shield, had been passed into his care the week prior, the true surrender of the old to the new. Carefully, he lifted it away, gloved fingers clasping its edges, a steadying breath taken before he swung it around to attach to the magnetic harness. For a few seconds, he stared into the small mirror adorning the far wall.

While he did not look much like Steve, he knew that he did look the part of the captain now. And from that point on, he would have to act the part, too.

Stepping out of his locker space, he met the eyes of his teammates, all waiting for him to move as one. To move out together, as a new team.

"You ready, Captain America?" the Black Widow inquired, the lines of her suit fired up and glowing crimson. Beside her, the Scarlet Witch arched a brow, Ant-Man and the Falcon tugging pieces of their uniforms to sit correctly. The Vision, his cape swirling about him, met his gaze unabashedly, and the frissons of doubt and fear that had crawled into his heart were stemmed. Forcibly, Bucky drew himself to his full height, nodding at his compatriots.

"As I'll ever be," he intoned mildly. Lifting his chin, he blinked once before stepping forward, leading the way to the elevator that would take them to the landing platform. "Let's go."

Despite the gravity of the situation, he felt Natasha slip her hand in his as they rode the conveyance, her facade not solidifying again until they were in the quinjet and away. And they went, right into the heart of battle. The goal was to put down the remaining resistance, and they were to do just that. Barnes had insisted that the Vision assist Sam with sweeps, take out an aerial fighters or snipers from the rooftops as he went. Wilson would do that duty, as well as accompany Scott on the ground as they moved in from the west, the women coming in from the east. Having chosen to drive up the middle, Bucky was able to catch those who spilled out of the hide-out, driving the off-shoots either left or right into the others. Thus far, the plan was working, call-outs made in between slinging the shield and using the weapons he had on hand.

Which brought him to that moment, to him crouching low behind a truck that provided little cover. Flicking his eyes around, his memory flashed, images of a prone captain on a road deflecting enemy fire back at his opponents. Taking a page out of Steve's book, he began to angle the shield ever so slightly, the rebounding shots finally repelled back at the attackers after a few moments of trial and error. Realizing their maneuvers were being used against them, the gunfire ceased, providing Barnes with an opening. At once, he sprang to his feet, running full tilt at the first crop of recruits. Hopping into their nest, legs and arms swinging as the shield caught the wild punches and kicks of the enemies.

"If anyone's free, could use some back-up here!" he cried out, a solid punch landing on one guy's jaw. Another insurgent locked an arm around his throat from behind, and his choked growl reverberated in his chest. Preparing to drive an elbow back, he felt the man behind him stiffen, his grip loosened as he fell to the ground. Another set of hands clapped onto his shoulders, dropping him down into a crouch.

Looking to his left, he was met with ocean-colored eyes, lit up by a confident smile.

"I'm always free, Cap," Natasha teased, hair pushed out of her face before tapping his arm, "as well you know."

He smirked; apparently, the troops she and Wanda had gone after were subdued, enough so that she could be near at hand to help him out. But the remark on the tip of his tongue vanished as another hail of gunfire spat around them. Raising the shield again, he hooked one hand backward, his body sheltering Nat as the roars of the insurgents cracked along with the shots. Out the corner of his eye, he witness the Vision swooping down, plowing headfirst into the second bank, disarming them with alacrity. Immediately, Bucky rose and started running again towards the final wave, Natasha on his heels. Guns were raised again, but few shots were fired before Captain America and the Black Widow leaped upon them. His sidearm came to hand, a few rounds of his own cutting through the air and embedding themselves into the armor of the fellows. As one, he and Natasha fought back to back, complementing jabs and kicks joined by the slashes and shot of their blades and guns. A knife was thrown, glancing over his arm. The slit allowed the gleam of his metal appendage to show through, the insurgent's eyes widening as he tried to comprehend what he was looking at. Taking advantage of his microscopic confusion, Barnes flung the disc, the rebound of it off the fellow's body driving it into the nearby wall (he reckoned Steve would have been pleased; his weeks of training had yielded good fruit). The last man down, the ring of the gunshots petered away, and he allowed himself to breath. Silently, Bucky crossed the field, retrieving the shield he had thrown. The vibranium disc was swung onto the magnetic holster on his back, and he unhurriedly allowed the empty clip from his gun to drop, reloading it with ease. The gesture went a ways to calm the fire inside him, reorienting him back into the present moment.

"Everything's locked down, Captain," the Falcon called down the line, a final sweep cut through the air above him, the designated drones fluttering around as well. The minute crackle of the others tapping in, the reports of the stragglers being rounded up echoing after his announcement. "Waiting on orders."

Bucky's gaze darted across the courtyard, the fallen around him either unconscious or too broken to even wish to move. Meeting the Vision's eye, he nodded for the android to start rounding up the downed troops, the flicker of the flaming Jeep dancing over the spatter bruising on his exposed jaw. Natasha, taking deep breaths, canted her head, communicating without words that she would also start to process the new prisoners. Inhaling deeply, he bent an ear out, the distant shouts and screams having quieted significantly. Wilson flew overhead once more, and he let his breath out through his nose.

"Alright, everybody. Let's get this place cleaned up," he crowed over the line, instructing the others to begin restraining the captured. His heart thundered in his chest as he paged through to Hill and Rogers, informing them of the situation's conclusion. The battle, his first as Captain America, was over. However, the job was not finished, and so he took another step forward, determined to meet with his team and finish it.

 **xXxXxXx**

Leaning back in his chair, Steve let out a deep breath. A hand was perched at his ear, tapping into the comm link that he had been connecting with on and off for the last few hours. The training, the mission work, it had all come to this. And Bucky, thank God, did not let him down. He had done a fine job, and it showed as the aerial shots of the Avengers' efforts were forwarded to him. It bode well for the future, he decided, eyes scanning the display one last time, the reporter onscreen talking about the sudden appearance of the team and their work for the day. Flicking off the screen beside him, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Good work out there. I expect a full report tomorrow afternoon," he murmured in a low tone, the fingers of his free hand tapping lightly along the edge of his desk. Listening for a moment, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, a brief smirk playing across his lips before he answered, "You'll be back by one in the morning, you'll have plenty of time to sleep and compile something. Alright, see you then. Call if anything happens."

Tapping out, he glanced to his left, out the glass walls to the hall and windows beyond. Twilight had fallen, the sun having disappeared from the sky. The long day, the first day of his new position, of the new change, was ending. And not with a bang, but with a calm acceptance. For hours, he had been holed up in his office, fielding comm calls and other messages sent in and out. He did his best to keep Joe apprised of the situation as it progressed, followed by status reports made to Stark. In the end, they were not needed, but that was only avoided by the narrowest margin. Another time, they would be called upon, but not that day. Shaking his head, he scrubbed his palms over his face, the relief he had been suppressing starting to flood through. Nodding once, he scooped up the cafeteria take-out container on his desk and tossed it into the trash, the contents long since devoured. Getting up, he strolled over to the low couch set along the far wall, framed by the posters he'd drawn long ago. While he had been stationed at his desk for hours on end, Holly had taken over the sofa. She had been determined to ride out the later hours with him once she had learned of the team's deployment. As there wasn't any truly sensitive material that was part of the mission, she could stay and be able to see it through with him. Once she'd finished with her shift downstairs, she come up with her bag and an offering of food, pointedly setting one in front of him and placing the utensil in his hand to make sure he ate something. Her vigilance, however, had petered down as she was lulled into sleep. Her laptop was resting on the floor, still opened to the Facebook page for her novel. It seemed that she was able to answer some of the messages that had been cropping up over the last few weeks, but had stopped in favor of taking a short nap. Kneeling down (deftly avoiding her own food container as he did so), he brushed back the waves of dark hair that had fallen into her face. The gentle caress roused her, the stir of her underneath his touch making him smile.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, his voice still low in deference to her waking.

Blinking, she shifted onto her elbow, a palm rubbing at her lids. "Just resting my eyes."

Given how she was giving those breathy snorts she made while in deep sleep, he knew it was more than that. Still, he merely canted his head.

"Well, I hope you're rested enough for the drive home."

Her eyes widened, her feet coming down to rest on the floor.

"Are they done?" she wondered, pulling her phone out of her pocket and checking the time. Had it really only been four hours since she'd met Steve there, offered to stay with him while the team executed the first mission without him? She could have sworn she had just gotten there. Apparently, that wasn't the case.

"They've taken out several of the ringleaders, and they'll be waiting on local law enforcement to pick up the rest. Buck thinks they'll be back in a couple of hours," Steve reported, rising from his crouch to sit beside her.

Holly's body tensed, her eyes searching his as she pondered something else. "And they're all okay?"

"A-okay," he affirmed, followed by a nod. A measure of pride and wistfulness flooded his gaze, and he dropped it to examine the toe of his shoe. "They did just fine."

She expelled a short breath of her own, leaning back into the cushions. "Good, I'm glad."

"Me, too."

Suspended in a moment of quiet, Holly examined her husband as he sat back, his eyes still distant.

"So this all worked. For the most part," she qualified, the success of the transfer and replacement still settling around them.

"It's new, and I'm still adjusting to it, but yeah, it did," he proclaimed, meeting her eye-line again. Catching the wary incredulity on her face, he shot her a wry look as he raked a hand back through his hair. "I won't lie; it's odd to not be out there anymore. To not be what I was made to be."

He paused for a moment, considering his words and touching upon the heart of the matter. The heart that had driven him to make his choices.

"But, then again, what I was made to be wasn't meant to last as long as it had. I was supposed to help end the war, not extend it. And to be honest, it wasn't supposed to be just me." His bright gaze latched onto a point beyond the glass walls of his office, onto something neither of them could see. "It takes more, it takes others. And those others are ready to step up while I step back."

Holly dipped her chin, laying a hand on his bicep and drawing him back to her.

"Not too much of a step back, I hope," she intoned, the playful lilt barely masking the seriousness beneath the inquiry. At once, he shook his head, standing and taking up her hands. Helping her rise, he laced the fingers of one with hers, while the other moved to lay over her belly.

"No. Just going in a new direction, is all," he stated, firmness in his tone. The impassive set of his face broke as he bent down, planted a kiss on her forehead. "I'm good with that."

Another kiss was shared, and then the pair started to gather up their things, intent on heading to their home and getting some proper sleep. However, as they made their way to the elevator embankment, Steve's phone vibrated in his pocket. Furrowing his brow, he raised the device and answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Commander," greeted the fellow at the other end, sounding a little flustered. "A delivery has arrived for you here at the drop-off house."

Rogers raised an eyebrow at thin air. It wasn't the first time he'd ever gotten a delivery call for pick-up (secured lines and special permissions granted between the stationed agent and the members of the base ensuring the safety of those involved), but it was awfully late to be getting one, particularly when they were out as far as they were.

Flatly, he stated, "At 9 PM."

He could almost hear the stationed agent shrug, could almost see his free hand flapping in the air.

"Special delivery, sir," he brushed it off. "It came earlier, and I was gonna inform you before, but, well—"

"That's fine," the commander cut him off. Steve closed his eyes, barely concealing their roll as he did so. Swiftly disconnecting the call, he looked at Holly, her curious expression impossible to miss or ignore. Pocketing his device, he muttered, "Looks like I'm stopping at the drop-off before heading home."

Holly huffed out a breath, her confusion at getting a call so late to go there surfacing, but ultimately they parted in the garage well enough. Admonishments for both to be safe while driving (as was common, they had to go to work separately), Steve waited to get into his truck before he saw her Buick motor out of the space, a weary sigh on his lips as he maneuvered his vehicle down the frontage road, the dust still not settled from her trail. Taking a right rather than a left, he found his way to the package house, the agent there full of apologies and sheets to sign. Evidently, the delivery was far more special than he had let on initially; special permissions needed the commander's signature, and he had to ensure that he had picked it up at the earliest possible convenience. If the mission had not happened, of course he would have gotten in touch, but he had thought it would be best not to disturb Rogers in his work. The words slid over Steve, in one ear and out the other as he signed the multitude of papers, the box actually a crate with firm metal latches on the sides. Hoisting it into the bed of the truck was no issue, but it certainly raised a fair number of questions as to the contents as he drove home. It had passed inspection, passed scans to even be delivered in the first place, so it must have been safe. Still, he hadn't a clue as to what it could be. Pulling up his driveway, he had no answers to give as he parked, removing the crate and manhandling it through back door of the house after disarming the security. He was just pushing it to sit squarely on the center island as he heard Holly's footsteps across the floorboards, her clothes exchanged for pajamas and her wavy hair framing her face. Any tiredness she must have felt evaporated as she stared at the box, meeting Steve's lifting shoulder with a few blinks.

"What is it, do you think?" she asked, coming around to his side as she hesitantly brushed a finger over the crate. Her husband merely canted his head, biting the inside of his cheek as he continued to stare at it. Spotting a plastic envelope sleeve, she tapped it, waiting as Steve withdrew the card tucked inside. A stamped seal of a panther adorned one side, reflecting the light as he turned it over. A shot message stood out against the creamy stock, elegant script catching the eye.

 _ **In commemoration of your birthday and your promotion. Many happy returns, Commander.—T'Challa**_

Steve's surprise surfaced as he glimpsed the signature on the card. To his knowledge, T'Challa was busy with stabilizing his kingdom after the death of his father, his Avenging duties put on hold for a minimum of three months. He would take on Kate Bishop's role as the permanent on-call person for the secondary team; fortunately, the female archer was poised to start her tenure there as it was, and would be able to fill in. They could hardly begrudge him his official duties, and so they did not. So it was something of a shock that the king of Wakanda would take the time to send him anything, let alone the box and the card.

Setting the card to one side, his bright gaze slid over the box, to the latches holding the lid in place. Carefully, he opened them one by one, lifting the lid away and propping it against the island. Staring down into the contents, at the items nestled within the packing material, he felt his jaw go slack for a moment. Holly's eyebrows rose at that, and after several long seconds of silence she nudged his arm, jostling him out of his shock. Clearing his throat, he reached into the box, ready to show her what had been sent to him.

"It's, it's a new shield," he breathed, pulling it out with a sort of awed reverence. Holding it out, he allowed Holly to examine it along with him. In shape, it bore resemblance to his stage shield, but was large enough to actually provide adequate protection. The pure vibranium was cool to the touch, and light to hold, even lighter than his old shield had been. It had been painted steel blue, with a star at its center and ringed with a circle of darker blue. Along the outer edges, crimson paint had been applied, the allegiance of the bearer declared when one looked upon it. It had been outfitted to allow magnetic holsters or leather ones to be attached along the back. Utter silence had filled the space between them, with Steve still absorbing the enormity behind the gesture T'Challa had made. The mixture of old and new elements struck him to the core, held him fast as he considered it all. To part with a substantial amount of the metal that had supported his country, to give it away for another's use, showed a level of respect that Rogers was unsure he deserved from the king of Wakanda. Still, he had parted with it, and must have done so gladly, if the note was any indication.

"Stepping in a new direction, eh?" she teased, poking at the centered star. The levity in her tone pulled him out of his haze, and he straightened his spine.

"Well, it doesn't hurt to have a little protection to do so, does it?" he countered, letting playfulness fill his tone as he raised the shield once more, standing tall and proud for a minute or two. Holly shook her head and grinned before shuffling closer.

"No, sir," she responded, her palm flat against the star. His free hand came to rest over hers, quiet acceptance filling them both as they stood suspended in the moment.

* * *

 **A/N:**...I can never seem to make chapters short, huh? Well, there was a lot going on here, what with Independence Day, Wanda and the Vision finally becoming a thing (yes, I sneaked in a paprika thing, don't judge me), Bucky taking to his role as Captain America, and Steve acting as a commander for the first time. Feel free to discuss.

I did the math regarding Steve's age, and really, despite his birth date, he is actually in his thirties in the MCU now (mentally and physically). Also, Steve's new shield is more based on one that is used in the more recent comics, from what I have seen of pictures of it. However, that does not mean I approve of what is happening to Steve in said comics, and how badly they are distorting his character. I'm with you, my friends, I don't like it either! I just wanted to use the shield design, that's all. Think of it as reclaiming it and the colors for the good side in this piece, in this universe where Steve will not be touched or changed in that way. :) I just hope that something as simple as design and colors won't put anyone off this story for good, or becomes the sole focus of the story/chapter...:-S

Edging ever closer now, ever closer...I bet you can guess what may be happening in the next chapter. ;)

By the way: it's Duck-Duck-Grey Duck. I will argue that point until the day I die.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Facebook, _Supernatural_ , etc.).

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody. Have fun, eat chocolate, and love yourselves!

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	32. Chapter 32

The bag flapped open on the bed, a shirt or two tossed on top of it as Holly began to rummage through the dresser drawers. Though she wouldn't be going for a couple of days, she had wanted to be prepared for it. On the end of the bed, Steve sat with his hands folded in his lap, concern on his face.

"You sure about this, doll?" he asked, seemingly for the millionth time (in her exaggerated estimation). Fiddling a little with the wristband of his watch, he stated, "It's cutting it awfully close."

Her shoulders tensed for a moment before she dropped the shorts she was holding back into the drawer. Turning to face him, she exhaled slowly, noting the genuine concern in his face and inwardly conceding the truth of his words. It was close, close to the due date for the baby, and traveling extensively was not ideal. However, it wasn't going to be for long, or too far away. It was doable, in her opinion, and more to the point, it was something she really wanted to do. When she'd gotten the email from the publisher that morning, with the final count of printed copies of her book ready for shipment the next week, she'd been ecstatic. And when she read further down, saw that the office in New York wanted to put together a celebration in her honor, she was entirely floored. They had asked for the earliest tentative date that she could give them for it, and she immediately fell on Saturday. That it was the Saturday before her due date was something that could be dealt with, she'd decided. All she needed to do then was to convince Steve of the same.

"Yeah, but I'm starting maternity leave on Monday, anyway," she pointed out, defending her position as she had for the last five minutes. Her coworkers had set up a little going-away lunch for her leave on Friday, and once she'd finished her shift, she was free for six weeks (six weeks of half-pay, but she was grateful for it; not many companies in the country even had that much set up for pregnant employees). "I've gotta go. They don't do promotional parties for everyone. I mean, it's only going to be a small number of staff there, but still, they don't do that nowadays unless they think it'll do well."

Blue eyes skittered away from brown, and he mumbled, "Uh-huh."

Sighing, Holly raked a hand through her loose hair, blowing out a breath before she looked at him again. The pensive expression on his face had not melted, nor had the concern disappeared.

"Steve, I'm not going to miss this," she told him, taking a step closer to the bed. How could she make him understand? Lighting upon an answer, she made an analogy to illustrate her point. "It'd be like a major gallery deciding to feature your art for a night. Could you turn down going to that, really?"

Steve's head tilted to the left, his lips thinning as his eyebrow arched.

"If I were about to pop?" he posited sardonically, flicking his gaze to her belly again. She took in a deep breath, ready to retaliate, but she was preempted by the palm he raised. "Okay, okay. I understand, really. But I'm going to go with you."

Holly tilted her head to the left, narrowing her gaze a bit. "Can't trust me by myself, Mother Hen?"

"Or I'm proud of you, and want to celebrate with you," he countered lightly. And he was, truly; it was just buried under the worry of leaving the area in which they had planned to have their son, even if he wasn't supposed to come for a few more days. Exhaling sharply, he ran a hand through his hair before standing, going to her and taking her hands in his. "And if something does happen, I can help you."

She couldn't stop the scoff that tumbled over her lips. "What, like I'm gonna shoot the little guy out right then and there, and you'll be there to grab him?"

"I'll do what I have to," he replied staunchly, chin dipping in a nod. After a moment, he furrowed his brow, mulling over what she'd said. "Although the online childbirth videos didn't really teach us how to catch a baby-sized infield fly."

A snicker shot out of her before she could help it, the sudden visual in her mind too much to ignore. The online courses they'd taken over the last few weeks had been informative (and so much better for them, given how little time he had to spare for a traditional course), but they hadn't quite taught fathers to do that for their newborns. She would know; they had a notebook filled with bullet points that had no mention of such things.

"You'd need one hell of a glove to catch him with." They shared a smirk at that, smiles lingering as the quiet settled for a few moments. Squeezing his hands, her features took on a contemplative slant, and she asked him, "If I called Carol to get her opinion and some necessary info in case anything does happen, would that help?"

Inclining his head, Steve confirmed, "It would."

Nodding, she crossed the room to the far wall and reached down into the hospital bag that was prepared (already full of clothes, toiletries, and other goods for her eventual stint after the birth), the new sheet of paper attached to the birth plan they had drawn up fluttering as she held it out.

"Then it's a good thing I already did that."

Taking the paper from her, Steve scanned over the listed hospitals in New York City that Doctor Watson thought would suit their needs best in case anything happened. As well as that, she had jotted down the numbers of a few doctors who would be either on call or willing to work with them. And while she did not have privileges with those hospitals, the listed doctors were trusted colleagues who would allow her to communicate with them if anything arose that they could not handle. All this was written in Holly's neat script, and he snorted to himself.

"Outflanked me before we even got into it," he muttered, bright eyes glimmering as he glanced back up at her. "Should've known."

She lifted a shoulder, the corner of her mouth curving. She called the doctor over her break, not willing to just take a chance on fate. No, she'd rather be prepared.

"When you live with a master tactician, you tend to pick up a few things," she responded, stepping back and leaning against the dresser, crossing her arms over her chest. Taking a deep breath, Steve acquainted himself with the new information for several more moments, straightening his stance when he handed the papers back. If they wanted to make good time, they would have to leave no later than nine in the morning on Saturday, Holly's pleased grin his reward.

That and the kiss she planted on his cheek before shuffling into the closet to decide what else to pack for the both of them for the weekend.

 **xXxXxXx**

As decided, the couple drove to New York City bright and early on Saturday morning, the end of July heat shimmering around them as they went. Intending to stay through until the following night or Monday morning, they elected to occupy the quarters set up for them at the Tower, JJ's voice accompanied by a greeting from Tony as they parked. Relations were repaired enough between him and Steve that they could actually meet up with the billionaire, the common area on the top floor open for them to have lunch. Pepper was there as well, though she was due out on a flight that evening for a meeting at the home offices on Monday. Though it had begun initially in awkwardness, Holly and Pepper had come to the silent agreement to engage in idle banter, stories gathered over the last few months allowing their male companions to be at ease with each other once again.

The rest of the day passed lazily after that, with husband and wife taking their ease around the quarters until the hour of the party approached. The heat in the city pierced them even as they climbed into a cab and headed farther into midtown, deposited just off the corner of the publishing house's building. Once they had found their way inside, they were directed to the seventh floor. As promised, the get-together was small, selected editors and their partners on the floor along with the publishers responsible for the book's debut (Holly's agent was out of town for the weekend, but sent on her best wishes). Passing cubicles, they went into a wide conference room, devoid of furniture save for a couple small tables at the back and a food service set-up along the far wall. The cover artwork, depicting a young woman pressing two fingers to her temple and projecting an aura around her, was blown up, hanging from the wall above the snack tables. Holly stared at it for a long moment, even after she had been tapped by Steve a few times to bring her back into the present.

It had happened; her book was finally published, after years of work, and trial and error. And she was savoring it, truly...except for the aches and cramps digging into her lower abdomen. It had been happening on and off since approximately six that evening, and while they were a bother, she ignored them. As best she could, anyway. Once the distractions of introductions and well-wishes were passed, she could feel herself start to wilt. Her husband had gone off, fetched her a cup of water, but he could see that she was no better by the time he'd returned.

"You feeling okay?" Steve asked in a hushed tone, his hand settling in the small of her back.

"Just very hot," she groused out the corner of her mouth. Despite the air conditioning working hard in the office, she could still feel the beads of sweat pooling and dropping down her back. Cramps were gripping at her gut, but she chalked it up to being on her feet for too long. Shifting from foot to foot to alleviate the ache, she continued, "God, why do I have to carry this kid in the middle of summer?"

Soothing circles were rubbed against her shirt, and he sheepishly grinned. "On the positive side, he's almost out, so it won't be for much longer."

Holly clicked her tongue before letting a chuckle work its way out. "Good point."

The pair was approached by a couple of new editors, some who were avid Captain America fans, and while he no longer held the title, he indulged them in answering a few questions. When they bid him to come with them, meet their gathered families, he cast a fast glance to his wife. Flapping a hand, she silently bade him to go, leaving her on her own for the moment. A gentle tap came on her shoulder, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Upon noting who had gotten her attention, she attempted to relax, snickering to herself. It was the head publisher, Marcia Stanton. She was the one who had read her manuscript at the behest of the agent, and who had eventually ordered a contract to be drawn up and got her on her way. She definitely could spare her a minute or two of her time.

"Congratulations, Holly," the older woman extolled, giving her a warm handshake. Tucking back some of her loose, gray-blonde hair behind her ear, she brushed down her skirt before saying, "Took a look at the pre-sales; things are looking good so far."

A flood of relief filled Holly's heart; she had hoped that her attempts at self-advertising would help, and evidently that was the case.

"Keeping my fingers crossed," the younger woman responded, a minute wince playing across her features. As her hand pressed along the swell of her stomach, she shifted from foot to foot, and Marcia smiled in sympathy.

"And there's more that needs to be given, I see." She was aware of Holly's pregnancy, as it had prevented her from considering a promotional tour for her book, but she could not recall how far along she was. If she had to guess, she was close, but she was determined to have confirmation. "When's the little one due again?"

"Four days, if all goes as planned."

Marcia blew out a low whistle. "Wow, brave of you to journey down here for this."

"Better now than later, right?" Holly replied, smirking a little. It grew slightly bashful as she waved a hand towards the others milling about, to the promotional art for the book in place above the snack tables. "And thanks, for...well."

The older woman followed her gaze, confidence in her expression as she drew herself to her full height.

"You have a story to tell, and it's better than a lot of the things that have been dropped on my desk. I didn't want to let that chance pass."

"Despite the pseudonym," the newly-published author retorted, the curve of her mouth inviting her to laugh a little, too. Marcia nodded, her graying blonde hair swinging about her shoulders.

"Again, it was a chance, and I wasn't going to let it slide," she affirmed, arching an eyebrow and smirking herself. "Regardless of the name attached to it."

Holly grinned at that, and allowed the conversation to be steered towards trivialities. When the pleasantries were exhausted, the younger woman stepped away, eager to get another drink of water and some of the hors d'ouevres. The publisher's eyes tracked her across the room, her expression remaining pleasant as the brunette sidled up to her husband. He tipped his head, nodding once as she squeezed his bicep, eyes warming as he watched her walk towards the others to socialize. Swirling the drink in her cup, Marcia approached the fellow who had until recently been known as Captain America. Though he had been polite, it didn't take a genius to note that he did not feel comfortable there, and she wanted to remedy that, if she could. They shared a nod in greeting, a firm handshake of reintroduction paving the way. Banal chit-chat was engaged, though she found that his gaze trailed off of her to his wife every few seconds. One time, she followed it, noting the unconscious smile on his lips as the younger woman laughed at something one of the editors said.

"You must be proud," she remarked quietly, her mouth curling as they both witnessed Holly explaining a plot point, animated gestures joining her phrasing. Out the corner of her eye, she spotted the steady surety in his gaze.

"I've always been of her," he stated simply, his shoulders squared and his grin genuine. "Even more so, now."

They shared another look, and nothing more said between him and the publisher. Music poured in from a boom box perched in the corner, and soon enough Holly had returned to his side. A few of the editors had returned as well, phones at the ready. While her contract stipulated that in no way, shape, or form could her status—or, more specifically, her husband's status—be used as part of the promotion for her book or the company, that wasn't to say the fans of his there wouldn't want to get in a few pictures. Awkwardly, they shuffled in close, picture after picture taken as another bead of sweat trickled down her spine, her smile losing its intensity with each tap of the screens. Steve held her close, his arm locked securely around her to help keep her upright, his polite demeanor plastered on throughout. Once they had finished, he asked if they could look at the photos, just in case anything unflattering popped up.

"Aw, look at that, you're glowing," her husband said, smiling fondly as he handed her the phone of the last person to check out the picture. She grinned as well, though she did allow a snort out of her nose.

"More like sweating to death," she croaked, the device pressed back into his grip. Handing the phone back to the owner, he bent and pecked Holly on the temple.

"Glowing," he corrected mildly, the affection for her lining his irises. Spying the upsurge of his emotion, she blinked and felt her smile grow wider.

"Oh…" she crooned, before reaching up and pinching his cheek. "Cheeseball."

Shaking her off, he crooked an arm around her shoulders, his hand coming up and tugging on her earlobe.

"Never claimed otherwise," he muttered as she yelped in surprise. Taking another fast glance at the party, at the people already departing, he turned to her. "Ready to get out of here?"

Holly let her gaze wander to the dwindling attendees, to the clock on the wall as it ticked past nine o'clock, and felt yet another cramp seize her. She'd had her moment, and there was no shame in bowing out then.

"Yeah, let's go."

Politely bidding good-bye to the other guests and to Marcia, they made their way out of the publishing house, the heat of the day having barely relented in that time. Within the hour, the couple had returned to the Tower, a call upstairs made to let Tony know that they had returned. The tech genius thanked them for their report, and instructed that they stay away from R&D until further notice, as he was neck-deep in building and could not spare time or energy for their safety. Steve shook his head at that, and Holly merely told the older man good-night. To bed they went, though her cramp stayed with her even as she changed into her sleepwear. Along with that, the sweat on her body had not cooled, and roughly an hour after lights out, she was still achy and overheated. Matters were not helped when Steve insisted on clinging to her in his sleep, spooning her and his arm curling over her.

"No arm, too heavy," she crowed sleepily. Attempting to lift it off, she was rewarded with him pulling her tightly against him. She stifled a groan at the uncomfortable wash of body heat flowing from him to her, and wriggled as his puffs of breath coursed across her neck. It was too much to deal with, and so she tapped his arm until he shifted and grunted. "Hon, you're too hot. Move over."

"'Kay. Sorry," Steve mumbled, his arm releasing her and providing her with some relief. He went further by shuffling back to his side of the bed and turning over, eyes still shut. Shaking her head, Holly stared at the opposite wall for several long moments. The ache in her back and the cramps were not alleviated, and with a groan she got out of the bed, pillow in hand as she left the room. One of the upsides of the quarters in the Tower was the amount of space; she could walk around it and not feel trapped or constricted like in a small apartment. Taking a lap around the living area, she moved through the kitchen and dining spaces, spasms twinging across her belly and up her back. A yawn coursed out, and eventually she waddled (and she knew that she very much did so, given how low the baby was those days) to the couch. Forgoing grabbing a blanket from the hall closet, she reclined on the cushions, the throw pillows piled up to elevate her back and her regular pillow stuffed on top for her neck. The cooler air of the room finally penetrated the heat that had surrounded her all day, and finally, finally, she was able to drop off.

That lasted a few hours, when her aches roused her once more. Scrubbing a hand over her eyes, she blinked against the low lamplight coming from the kitchen. As well as that, the lights of the city bled into the room, the darkness at bay for the moment. Dropping her palm into her lap, she realized that a thin sheet had been spread over her legs. A snuffling snort came from her left, and when she glanced down, she blew a sigh out her nose. Steve was there, curled up in a blanket and an arm crooked under his head acting as his pillow. Turning to lay on her side, she let one hand drift down, tapping the end of his nose. Wrinkling it, he shook his head in his slumber, waking only when the taps persisted. When his eyes fluttered open, he groaned aloud, her smug smile at catching him out broadening as he did so.

"Dork. That whole bed, and you still pick the floor," she murmured. Fingers curled around her palm, and she caught his muffled sigh. Glancing down again, she saw the glimmer in his blue eyes as he looked up at her.

"You're here," he stated simply, scooting a bit closer to the couch before letting go. "'Course I picked the floor."

The sweetness of the gesture made warmth bloom in her heart, but she still shook her head at him.

"Again, I say 'dork.' Go back to sleep," she bid him, lids drifting shut as he mumbled in compliance. Sleep remained elusive for her, and before too long she was awake again, staring up at the barely-lit ceiling. The pain in her lower half was not abating in the least, and she could not handle being on her back anymore. Nothing was getting rid of the ache, and to top it off, her throat was incredibly dry.

 _'Water, water would be good,'_ she thought, rubbing under her eyes. Pushing the sheet off, she slowly scooted to the end of the couch, rising and stepping carefully around Steve's legs as she went. The cramping in her lower belly spiked as she went, the timing between them shortening little by little. When she reached the sink in the kitchen (the clock on the stove reflecting it to be nearly 3 AM), the ache had ratcheted up into pain. When it subsided briefly, she took her chance to get a plastic cup out of the cupboard, filling it and swallowing a few large gulps before the next one hit. Her brain caught up with her, told her that she could deny it all she wanted, but the aches were not going to go away.

"Oh, that, that is not cramps," she groaned, finally accepting the truth in that instant. Tightness ripped into her lower belly, and she braced her free hand on the edge of the counter. "Ah..."

Dropping her empty cup into the sink, it clattered loudly, but she couldn't be bothered to to care. Instead, she concentrated on taking in deep breaths and not jack-knifing to relieve the pressure.

"Doll?" Steve's voice echoed after a few moments, no doubt woken by the noise and confused as to why she was no longer beside him.

Curling her fingers harder into the counter's edge, she hoarsely called, "In here."

The tread of his footsteps halted at the edge of the tile, and when she glanced up, she saw the worry etched into his face, fingers dropping from attempting to fix his sleep-ruffled locks.

"What is it?" he asked, coming forward and reaching out to her. Her free hand went up, palm out to stop him.

"Contractions," she gasped out, fist clenching on the counter as the frissons of pain ebbed. "Real ones."

Steve froze, his body taut and his gaze unyielding.

"You sure it's not Braxton Hicks," he said. "Absolutely sure?"

"Yeah, this feels different." That was putting it mildly. The cramps had escalated enough to the point that she wanted nothing more than to fold in on herself to stop it. "This is different from earlier."

Steve gaped at her for a moment. "You were having these earlier? Why didn't you say anything?!"

"Because I just thought that it wasn't the real thing!" she snapped back, unable to withhold her frustration. She'd been experiencing moments of Braxton Hicks contractions on and off over the last month, and it had always come to nothing in the end. Sure, she was closer to her time than before, but she did not think that it would get to that point. Clearly, she was wrong that time.

"Okay, okay!" he crowed, waving a hand through the air before stepping closer to her. "Do you need me to get you anything?"

Her hand uncurled, reaching out for him as she shook her head. "No, just walk with me a minute."

Heeding her plea, he looped an arm around her waist, allowing her to tread away from the kitchen to the main living space. Under her breath, she mumbled numbers, counting the seconds between contractions as they went. As her body stiffened and and curled in every few minutes to endure the pain, Steve bit his lip. He didn't like watching his wife go through this form of agony, and he did not know how to help her otherwise. Save for one thing.

"We should go," he told her, fingers twitching against her sleep shirt. Her head jerked, as though she were denying him, and his free hand came up, tilting her chin up to see the total seriousness in his gaze. "Holly, you need to go to the hospital."

Just as he completed his sentence, she paused, her fingers digging hard into his arm. Something like the snap of a rubber band popped in his ears, and he furrowed his brow, wondering what it was. A whisper and a rush followed, and as he looked for the source, he noticed the flush of wetness spreading suddenly over Holly's bottoms. As the light blue material darkened, he swallowed hard, looking up in time to see her eyes widen.

"...Yeah, I do," she agreed, almost breathlessly, her grip intensifying and her lip bitten as another contraction pierced her.

"Did…did…" he stammered, staring down at the wetness now sprinting down her legs. A whimper and her clipped nod were all the answer he needed. At once, his spine stiffened, his commander persona taking the reins so that he could care for his wife. He had to not panic, had to keep his emotions under tight control, for her and the baby. Steering her into the bedroom, he helped her change into clean bottoms, with padding added to absorb the flow as much as possible. Quickly, he went about getting dressed properly himself, his wallet and phone hastily snatched from the dresser, a ball cap crammed onto his head as he went. The hospital bag, their near-constant companion over the last few days, came to hand easily as he began to guide Holly out to the elevator. On second thought, he rushed back into the quarters before the conveyance arrived, snatching up the sheet and blanket by the couch for the car ride. As they descended, they realized that attempting to drive up to Saratoga Springs would be futile; with her water breaking, she was afraid that she would end up having their son in the car on the way up. A nearby hospital, one of those that Carol had suggested in case they had any issues, would have to suffice. However, by the time they reached the garage, Steve had realized he'd forgotten something important.

"Damn, the keys," he grumbled, giving his pockets the pat-down one last time to confirm he had left them behind. Holly ground out a moan of pain and irritation, eyelids slamming shut when she understood what was going on. Swiftly, he scanned the garage, narrowing in on the second panel by the electrical box. It was a ruse, for inside were spare keys to all the cars Stark had within its confines (because, as brilliant as the billionaire was, he had a tendency to be a little scatterbrained at times. Particularly when exhausted). It would take time, time that they could not afford to waste, to go back for their own set, and he was not going to hot-wire his girl's car. Jogging over to it, he wrenched at the latches, prying them loose one by one. Under his breath, he muttered, "Sorry, Tony."

A final crack with his elbow, and the box sprang open, the click and clank of the key rings rattling as he dug through them. He knew he was going to get an earful about "borrowing" one of Tony's cars later, but it couldn't be helped. Selecting one, he clicked the sensor, finding that it belonged to one of the vehicles roughly seven spots away. Curling an arm around Holly's back, he shouldered the bag and blankets again, guiding all to the black car.

"An Audi? Really?" Holly crowed, the barest glimmer of a laugh at the back of her voice under the stress. Steve only shot her a look over his shoulder, shrugging slightly as he threw the blanket and the sheet over the seat before helping her in. Once she was situated and the hospital bag was placed on the floor by her feet, he got in on his side, keys jammed in and ignition firing.

"Just hang on," he mumbled, fingers shaking as he punched in the address for the hospital that Dr. Watson had recommended on his phone. Once that was completed, and the annoying computer voice began to drone, he shifted gears, the purr of the engine turning into a growl as he drove them out of the garage and onto Manhattan's streets. Wincing, Holly took a deep breath, struggling to maintain her composure (and failing, in her mind). The hand not perpetually attached to her swell reached over, dug into the meat of his thigh.

"Do not whip around corners. I don't want our baby to come flying out in here," she demanded, taking in another deep breath as she leaned back in the seat. Nodding in compliance, her husband made sure to drive as safely—and quickly—as he possibly could. She was fairly certain that he would have been running red lights if he thought he could get away with it. (If she wasn't shooting him hard looks when they approached red lights in between the cramps and contractions, he would have done so.) She was trying so hard to not cry out when another contraction ripped through her, but it was obvious how on edge she was. Steve was attempting to maneuver around a cab that was half-jutted from the curb out into the lane when the system on the dashboard lit up. The AI assigned to the vehicle proclaimed that Tony Stark was calling, and with a gruff groan, she slapped at the interface, accepting it over her husband's objections.

"Rogers, what the hell are you doing?" Tony growled, his voice reverberating in the cab. Sharing a glance with Steve, Holly felt both her fists and her jaw stiffen as the older man went on. "JJ tripped the alarm the minute you busted the key box. What—"

Steve opened his mouth to answer, but his wife was faster on the draw, that time.

"Would you rather I had given birth in your garage, Stark?" Holly barked, having none of it. Where she not in the precarious predicament she was in, she would've tempered her tone, but her contractions were kicking up and she was miles away from the hospital that she had planned on giving birth in. To say she was on edge was an understatement. Gritting her teeth, she took in a shallow breath before continuing, "Because that's what would've happened if I waited for Steve to go all the way back upstairs for my car keys."

A bit of an exaggeration, but she wasn't of a mind to downplay the progression of her labor. She tilted her head back against the rest, missing the significant look Steve shot at her in the silence that followed. A cough sound over the line, and she could practically hear Stark's mental backpedaling in the quiet.

"...Fair enough," the billionaire eventually choked. Another second of silence passed, and then he wondered, "Wait, you're in labor now? I thought you weren't due for another few days."

Out the corner of her eye, she caught Steve rolling his eyes, but she cut in yet again.

"Due dates aren't always accurate. And he's coming now."

"Right," Stark muttered. A shift and a shuffle came on his end, and then he cleared his throat. "Okay, well, just do the breathing thing they tell you all to do, and be careful. Both with the kid and the car."

"Thanks, we will," she grunted, tapping the console and ending the call. Glancing over, she spotted Steve's raised eyebrows. Hers shot up as well, and she asked, "What?"

"I have never gotten Tony off the phone that fast before," he crooned, the façade of steeliness pushed back enough for a dry smirk to bloom. "That was downright magical, doll."

Holly snorted, shifting uncomfortably and trying to alleviate the pressure. "I probably freaked him out."

Listening to the prompt of the navigation app and signaling a right turn, Steve lifted a shoulder. "Still magical."

The remainder of the car ride was had in silence, without even the radio playing. It took some doing, but eventually Steve got them both to the hospital in good time. Parking and walking into the emergency area was almost a blur, as Holly was focused on the rising excitement and panic flooding her system. The on-call doctor was to be summoned as they checked her in, vitals taken and Steve proffering the birth plan to them as well. Within an hour, she was relegated to a room, her clothes exchanged for a hospital gown, meters and such strapped over her belly to measure the heart rate of the baby, the lights lowered and music pumping out of the iPod she'd packed filtering into the space. Doctor Emerson, an older man with white-blond hair and a genial grin despite the lateness of the hour, pronounced that with the epidural she'd requested, it was going to take some time until she was ready. Even so, he and the nurses would be on hand, checking in on her at pre-planned increments. When it came time to administer the anesthetic she'd requested, Steve stepped out of the room to get in touch with their loved ones.

Alone in the room for a few moments, Holly tried to regulate her breathing as the epidural began to work its way into her system. It was here, it was time; in only a few short hours (though later on, it would seem like days), she was going to be a mother. The little human life she was responsible for would be out, and she, she...had a mixture of feelings coursing through her. The natural inclination to panic was still there, but it was tempered with excitement and the pound of her heart of anticipation. That there was a layer of fear that she was desperately ignoring almost went without saying, but she could only stew in the feelings as she leaned back against the incline of her bed, her fingers twitching at the hospital robe she was wearing and the blanket that was loose around her legs. It wasn't exactly how she'd wanted it, but she was pragmatic enough to accept that something would not be to her liking, no matter how she strictly followed the plan or not. Not that it stopped her from worrying, just a little bit.

Soon enough, Steve returned, his thumb tapping against the screen of his phone and a sigh leaving his lips.

"I called your dad," he pronounced, and she attempted to sit up a little straighter. Crossing the room to her side, he pocketed the device and took her hand in his. "He's gonna get in touch with your brother and sister for us. Your mom and him are going to try and get an earlier flight out, see if they can leave in the next few hours. Otherwise, they'll be in on Monday as planned."

Holly nodded. At least one thing would go according to plan, if nothing else did. Her mom and dad had offered to come out when her due date came, to help them get settled into the house as a family and assist them in whatever ways they could. They would still be on schedule, she mused.

Mulling that over, she squeezed his fingers and asked, "Sarah?"

"Says she's keeping her fingers crossed for you," he reported, a half-smile stretching his mouth and his free thumb thumping against his pocket. "She'll try to come up, if she can."

"And the team?"

A ragged breath coursed out of his nose. "They're next."

Tipping her chin, she flapped her free hand at him, beckoning him to get on with it. Off her insistence, he pulled his phone out again, dialing fast and waiting for the call to connect. A bare few minutes were passed back and forth between him and the recipient, his eyes widening as he canted his head and responded. When the call was completed, Holly squinted at him, curious about the impressed set of his face.

"Well, evidently word's already prepped to spread at the base," he told her, making her eyebrows shoot up. Cupping a hand in the air, he continued, "Tony took the initiative to share with the team, and it will most likely go from there. He's gonna come in a little while, he and JJ will try to circumvent this leaking to the press for as long as possible."

"Good," Holly retorted, shifting in the bed and palming her swell. "Because if a reporter does get in here, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

Noting the darkening of her gaze, Steve snickered and put his phone away again.

"Gonna deck 'im one, dear?" he asked facetiously. When she raised her chin proudly, he chuckled again. "Then I'll help ya."

A small, pained grin was the answer to that, and it faded all too quickly.

Rubbing her shoulder, Steve couldn't stop himself from asking her, "How are you feeling?"

Her head tipped back as she considered the question, and she shrugged a bit.

"Kind of swimmy. Not in a drugged-out way, but in a 'hey, you're numb from the waist down' way," Holly told him, glossing over the inward turmoil; it was calming a little bit, though still brewing below the surface. Jerking her head towards the area of insertion, she muttered, "The epidural is definitely helping."

Her husband grimaced at that, and she merely lifted her shoulders. The calming piano compilation filled the silence for a few moments, and she curled her toes under the blanket as his thumb brushed back and forth over her sleeve.

"You're still okay with this?" she piped up suddenly, jarring them both out of the quiet. When he spiked an eyebrow, she clarified, "Coaching me?"

In the beginning, they had discussed the lengths at which Steve would go to be involved in the process, how far he was willing to participate. Given his abilities to lead and take command of high-intensity situations, it seemed almost natural to her for him to step in and coach her through it. However, if he wanted to withdraw, let a nurse help her instead, she couldn't blame him for it. He was probably as nervous as she was, and it wouldn't do to have both of them wigging out in that situation. His bright gaze latched onto her for a second or two, his chin raising as he made his decision.

"Too late to turn back now," he responded jovially, fingers threading with hers for a moment. His other hand came up, tucking the loose strands of her hair behind her ear as he confessed, "No place else I'd rather be."

She snorted at that. "Even when it gets crazy and full of fluids in here?"

Steve shot a deadpan glance at her.

"Veteran and Avenger, honey," he reminded her, his thumb hooking towards himself. "I think I can make it through. We both can."

A final squeeze of her fingers, and then he pulled away, the visitor's chair in the far corner retrieved and pushed closer to her bedside. Sitting down in it, he pulled up the hospital bag as well, diving into it to retrieve a stashed tablet. It would take time before she was fully dilated, and neither of them wanted to focus solely on sitting and waiting. Still, even with being shown funny videos on the Internet, and with him reading a few passages out of the eBook he'd been thumbing through, she couldn't put away the strange numbness and the rattling in her brain. It was possibly an hour or two later (time did not seem to be a concept she was aware of, the seconds marked by the beeping of the monitors and the nurses checking her dilation) when her fidgeting finally got the best of her, her inward panic surfacing in a whimper. Hearing it, and seeing the twist of her hands, Steve stashed the tablet, going to her side right away.

"Lay on your left," he commanded softly, bracing his palms along her as she complied. Once she was resting comfortably, he tugged at the ties on the back of the gown, opening it to expose her back. The pads of his fingers ran up and down over her skin, sliding and pressing gently. Deftly, he avoided going too low, his impromptu massage relaxing her bit by bit.

"You remembered," she exhaled, plucking at the sheet below her and letting her eyes fall shut.

"I did pay attention to those videos we watched, believe it or not," he said, thumbs coursing on either side of her spine. She smiled to herself; he really had paid attention, really soaked in what the childbirth series had instructed them upon. Despite his older sensibilities, he'd wanted to be a part of the process, wanted to help her in whatever way he could, and she was grateful for it. Recalling the latter portion of the video compilation, she giggled.

"Even if certain ones of the series made you squirm."

Though she could not see it, she could sense the flat expression decorating his features.

"I did not squirm," he denied, dutifully resuming rubbing her back. Still, his index finger wandered up to her shoulder blade, and he poked her. "And it wasn't just me, doll."

The massage went on for several more minutes, her breathing calmly significantly in that time. When finished, he tied up her gown and helped her roll over again, the comfort staying with her despite feeling physically at odds. Time stretched, and within another hour Emerson had come in with the nurses, joining them on their checks. Removing the blanket fully and peering at her lower half, he quietly conferred with the two women (a redhead in pink scrubs and a blond in green), their pitched voices causing Steve and Holly to share loaded glances.

"Alright, Holly, you're at ten and the baby's head is low enough," Emerson stated, the pleasant expression on his face unwavering. The thump of her heart increased when he gestured for the two nurses who'd come in with him (for the life of her, she could not remember their names) to start preparing her. "We're gonna start you on pushing, okay?"

"O-okay," she stuttered, looking up at Steve, the fear and excitement increasing twofold. He returned it, an encouraging grin flashed at her. From that moment on, it all seemed to charge forward, the sudden flurry of activity catching her off-guard as furniture and belongings were pushed out of the way, the bands on her stomach beeping a little louder. In a trice, her legs were propped up and her husband's hand was in hers, with him out of the chair and standing at her side. The command to push came, and she submitted, the odd sensation of feeling-but-not-feeling radiating from her pelvis. With the pain subdued, she centered on her breathing, on the steady tone crooning into her ear beneath the chatter and the demands of more, more, more. She bore down hard on each pass as she was told to, her fingers clamping so hard around Steve's palm that she was certain she would actually bruise him. Minutes felt like hours as she gritted her teeth, heeding yet another demand of pushing her child out.

"Blow in and out, Holly," one of the nurses suggested then—the one in the pink scrubs—a hand rubbing gently at her shoulder. "You're gonna need to fight the urge for a bit."

Caught in mid-push, caught in the loop of doing so, she felt herself scowl in confusion. "I do?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. You gotta stop," Steve stated bluntly, his free hand coming up to ease her back against the bed. The initial rigidity he met with bled away, soothed by his voice and the stable beeping of the monitors around her. "You're doing so good, Holl. Breathe."

It felt like a lifetime passed before she was given permission to start again, but once she did, she had no intention of stopping. Her nails were almost embedded into Steve's skin as she bore down, determined to have her baby quickly. Even with the epidural, she was unsure how much longer she could keep it up; she knew that she would have been worse off without it, for sure.

"Almost there," Steve grunted after a few minutes, wincing as her fingers clamped around him again. She shot him a glare, and she would have rolled her eyes if she wasn't so preoccupied with her task.

"Like you'd know," she snapped at him, the intensity of the labor getting the better of her in that instant. For his part, her husband merely tipped his head to the left, his free hand splaying between her shoulder blades as the doctor spoke again.

"Another good one and..." he trailed off, coaxing her through it, "his head is free!"

Falling back after the last push, Holly looked up at Steve, his head turned away. Even with his profile to her, she could see the bug-eyed set of his gaze, the rapid paling of his face as he actually watched their son begin to emerge.

"Oh...uh..." he stumbled in his speech, unable to look away. He'd been through war, battles, had seen death and chaos on a nearly regular basis. But he'd never watched a child being born before; it still took him aback. Especially since, in his day, fathers generally weren't present for the births of their children, seeing everything as it happened. But oh, he was certainly present in that moment, and he couldn't drop his gaze. Tugging on his hand, Holly shot a desperate look to the nurse on her left, the woman bidding her to breathe and get ready to push again.

"Steven!" she cried, loud enough to make him jump. Pulled out of his trance, he turned his attention away from the emerging baby back to her.

"Right here, right here," he spluttered, squeezing her hand back in reassurance. Another command, another push, and then the shoulders were out, Holly's puffing gasps increasing on the final leg.

"One more, Holly," Emerson declared, and with a last intake of breath, she bore down, the bare feeling of the little body being expelled from her own rushing away. Sharp cries began to ring in the space, and she fell back against the bed, inhaling deeply as her son was raised up. All squirming limbs and puffed cheeks, slicked hair and slathered in fluid, but he was there. He was there, and she could not help the sob of happiness that bubbled up from her chest. "And there! Look at the hair on this little guy."

Through the haze, she heard Steve's voice telling her she'd done it, how she'd done so well, the pleasure and joy in his tone impossible to ignore. A kiss was pressed to her sweaty temple, and she leaned towards it, her hand squeezing less painfully around his as she did so.

"Ready to cut the cord, Daddy?" Pink Scrubs inquired of him, and Steve jerkily nodded.

"I, uh, yes."

Once the clamp and cut were done, Steve's hand shaking slightly as he did so, the baby was taken to be cleaned, his little cries pulling directly on Holly's heartstrings. Stats were taken, the time of birth announced at being 8:23 in the morning of the 24th, and her eyebrows shot up. She'd been at the hospital for only five hours? At the back of her mind, she was musing over the fact that epidurals extended the labor for any mother; she must have been a lot closer than she'd first assumed when they'd arrived. Steve hovered between her and the nurses, with him eventually settling as they brought the newborn back. Automatically, her arms opened, accepting the little bundle that was the baby when he was offered. Holly held him close, marveled at his form and the puff of his pink cheeks, and her heart swelled even further.

"Oh, look at you, baby boy," she said, sniffing hard and trying to quell the tears that were rising. Little fingers, little toes, all in the right places and all so good. The fragile little skull in her palm was warm, soft, his birth-darkened hair tickling her skin. He'd since stopped wailing, his eyes opening a little to stare up at his mother. Giving a little breathy chuckle, she murmured, "Look at him, Steve."

"I am, doll," he rasped, his throat thickening as he stepped closer. One arm braced along the bed above her head, and with his other, he reached out towards their son. Extending his pinky, he smiled broadly as he placed it by the little one's hand, the tiny fingers gripping around his much larger one. Strong, their little guy was strong. "Hey, buddy."

They were allowed a few more minutes with the baby, reveling in his health and arrival before the nurses took him back. They were to do a check on his vitals, and then he'd be back with them. One of them went to the corner of the room designated to do so, while the other took position by the doctor again. A press on her belly, and she was quietly asked to push once more, the last of the process shunted out of her body. Not that she recalled much about it; her focus was on the little guy, one eye on the nurse caring for him even as she pushed out the last bits. Shortly, the nurse returned with the baby, all swaddled up and capped for the time being, but Emerson said there were still a few more things to attend to. Tearing had happened, and they would need to stitch her up swiftly to prevent infection. Cutting a glance at her husband, she nodded.

"Hold him while they..." she implored him, flicking her eyes to the doctor and back. A tray of tools was at hand, and she knew what was coming next. "I don't want to drop him."

Glimpsing the tray himself, Steve frowned and inclined his head.

"Sure. It's the least Daddy can do, right?" he said, taking their newborn from the nurse and cradling him carefully, supporting the head as he'd learned. The other nurse (the one in the dark green scrubs) had the foresight to pull one of the visitor's chairs back away from the wall, tapping his elbow gently and nodding for him to sit down. Thanking her, Steve sat and looked even closer at his son. The little pink face was scrunched up, the slits of his eyes blinking against the drops in them. He held him close to his chest, intent on keeping him warm just as the nurses had stated he needed to be. One callused pad ran over the smooth skin of the little one's brow, tiny lips puckering and puffing breaths taken. The warmth in his heart grew with every passing second, the beeps and soft chatter around him disappearing as he held their baby. The lump in his throat grew as he stared on the boy, on the child he had feared he would never meet or have all those years ago. He was there, really there, in his grasp, so small and soft, and alive. Blinking rapidly, it took a few attempts to clear his throat. Inhaling deeply, he looked up, and the adoration grew exponentially.

"Look at your mother."

Holly turned her head to look at him, her hands knotting into the bed as she met his gaze. The sweat on her face, on her body was starting to cool, her hair was a ratty mess. The top of her hospital gown was skewed (not to mention her lower half having been on full display for far too long), and she felt so numb and so tired. But her husband looked at her like she was made of gold, of every precious thing he could think of. It was like, in his mind, she had performed a herculean feat, and not something that millions of other women had done.

"She's amazing," he proclaimed, unabashed.

She snorted ruefully, keeping her attention on him and not on the pull of the stitches being woven.

"Didn't exactly save the world," she pointed out, feeling a slight tug as the doctor finished with his task.

"No," Steve agreed, nuzzling the crown of their son's head as he countered, "you brought a life into it. You brought him."

Steadily, he rose, holding the newborn securely as he crossed back to his wife's side, bending and pressing a strong, heartfelt kiss to her lips.

"So much better," he breathed against them, and she closed her eyes in contentment.

 **xXxXxXx**

Leaning an arm against the wall, Steve tiredly slid change into the vending machine before him, punching the buttons for the snacks he wanted. After the last several hours, he definitely wanted a treat.

Once the initial vitals for both mother and baby were performed, the new commander was informed of the arrival of a friend. Tony, it seemed, had gotten there just as Holly had started pushing, having been escorted through a back entrance to avoid the flurry of reporters and media representatives that were outside the facility. Inevitably, word had leaked about the imminent arrival of the Rogers child, the First Avenger's progeny good fodder for any blog or column out there. While the hospital did employ its own security, it was clear that more would be needed, and the tech genius assessed the situation accordingly. The Iron Legion, having been relegated to storage for the last several months, was summoned, stationed at the entrances and exits just in case anyone tried to get the run-around.

Of course, that would not be enough to appease the masses, and so Rogers had to leave his wife for a moment, take care of the issue at hand. Cameras and phones were thrust into his face, and Tony had almost acted like a personal bodyguard himself, arms out and shoving so that the people maintained a minimum of three feet. Some tried to weed out the gory details of the birth, but when Steve did nothing but tell them that his son and his wife had both come through, and that he appreciated the support of the others in their lives, they were forced into a retreat.

With the media vultures taken care of (Stark's words, not his), he led the way back inside, dully noting how it was barely mid-morning. It seemed like the day was stretching on. Tony followed him, determined to be the first to visit the little guy. It was the least they could do, since they borrowed one of his cars. It was said with a smirk, his expression holding little actual hostility, and Rogers knew that things were truly being mended between them. By then, Holly had been cleaned up, her face washed and her hospital gown secured before they'd entered the room. With permission granted, the tech genius made his way in at Steve's bidding, his wife's eyebrows arching in surprise to see him there. After giving her a careful hug in congratulations, the older man made his way to the bassinet, hesitating at the edges. Although both parents had given him permission to hold the little guy, he was still nervous to do so. It took some aid from Steve to guide him into his arms, but soon enough Tony Stark was cradling the baby, a small, genuine grin on his lips.

"Cute kid. Must get it all from you," he told Holly, the teasing glance he shot Steve making the blond man roll his eyes to the ceiling. A few more minutes of gentle rocking, and then the youngest member of the Rogers family was placed back in his bassinet, another round of quiet congratulations given to them both before he left.

With the billionaire gone back home and the drones still ringing the premises, Steve was finally able to catch a breath, catch a break. Retrieving the chips and candy bars he'd purchased, he mowed down on the treats, determined to be finished before he went back to Holly's room. One after another was devoured, and he'd barely managed to get the last bar wrapper open before his phone began to chime at him. Stifling a groan, he pulled out the device, a wan smile on his lips when he noted that it was a video call. Accepting it, the screen lit up with the faces of his team members, his friends. His family, his heart whispered at him. It appeared that they had gathered around a tablet, an edge of glass just beyond it telling him that it was propped up on a table in the communal space. Natasha, Bucky, and Wanda had commandeered chairs, while Sam, Scott, and the Vision pressed in between where they could. Greetings were volleyed between the two devices, the tinny echo of the voices calling out to him ignored.

"How is everything? How's Holly?" Natasha asked, not willing to beat around the bush any longer than she had to. The others commiserated, questions about the state of his wife bouncing around for a moment.

"Everything's fine, Holly's alright," he reported, the truth flooding him with relief all over again. Until he considered another truth, and he frowned slightly. "Had to get a couple stitches, and she's exhausted, but she's good."

Bucky sucked in a breath at that, sharing a glance with Natasha. "Yikes."

"I thought you said everything was fine," Wilson said. An eyebrow arched, and he wondered, "Stitches?"

Beside him, Steve caught Scott's wince in sympathy, but the other man did not hasten to extrapolate for the others. Instead, he folded his arms and waited for the commander to field that one.

"Stitches aren't all that...uncommon," he began to explain, hesitation in his voice. He didn't really want to discuss it, but perhaps oblique referencing would be enough. Coughing, he muttered, "When things tear—"

Palms raised then, and he paused as his friend shook his head.

"No offense, man, but I think an air of mystery should remain around a few things," Sam recommended, looking a little ill at the implications. While it was one thing to see his teammates injured and bleeding, it was another to think of Holly in that regard, and from the possible location of said injuries...it was best to stop thinking about it altogether. Wanda's green eyes wandered up to him, and she let her own expression tighten in empathy. Rogers cupped a hand over his mouth to hide the smile of discomfort that had cropped up, waiting until it had fully vanished before dropping his fingers.

"Okay, fair enough."

"And the baby? How is he?" Bucky inquired then, the rest of the team subconsciously leaning forward as one for the answer. He had to bite off a chuckle at that, instead turning his mind to the littlest of the family.

"He's...he's so good." Steve had to stop himself from declaring him 'perfect.' No child was, he understood that all too well. He couldn't allow himself to tempt fate regarding his little boy, proclaiming him as such, but it was nearly true. All eight pounds, three ounces, and twenty inches of him were just right. Ten fingers, ten toes, no apparent defects or illnesses thus far. The doctor and nurses had examined him, reported back how healthy he was, right out of the gate, and one of Steve's deep-seated fears began to fall away. They were checking his vitals at regular increments, and so far, so good. He was not sick, not wheezy...not like his father had been. And he would never, ever, stop thanking God and goodness for that. Sniffing, he swiped at his nose with his free hand, trying to dispel the mist that had gathered in his eyes. "He's..."

Natasha tipped her chin forward, a flicker of emotion fluttering in her own irises.

"Any chance we can get a sneak peek of him?" she asked, attempting to move past the maudlin display (all jokes aside, it was quite something to see the evidence of Steve's intense feelings on the matter, and she didn't know if she wished to handle it longer than she could). Sniffing again, Rogers swiped at his eyes once, the phone shifting with him as he moved.

"Sure. We gotta be quiet; they're both asleep right now," he told them, fishing out the set of ear buds he'd been using beforehand out of his back pocket. Plugging in the jack and stuffing the buds into his ears, he was able to circumvent a possible wakening by doing so. Treading back the way he had come, he told them, "They're catching up on it before the grandparents get in on Monday."

Scott's snort was audible. "Yeah, don't wanna risk Mama Bear's wrath so soon by waking either of them."

"No kidding," Steve whispered, cracking the door open little by little once he'd arrived at the correct one. Poking his head around, he took stock of Holly, asleep in the bed, her body turned towards the bassinet to the side. Silently, he entered and shut the door behind him, treading lightly over to the clear-sided bassinet. The little guy was still out cold, all swaddled in his blue blanket. The tiny blue cap on his head had ridden up slightly, and Steve took a moment to gently tug it into place. His son wiggled a little, his tiny mouth opening in an O for a second, but he kept on sleeping. Relieved that he hadn't woken either of them, he flipped the phone's screen to face his son and murmured, "Here he is."

Small intakes of breath greeted his ears, and he barely restrained himself from smirking.

"He's precious! Look at the little cap," the younger Maximoff gushed into the earphones, more enthusiastically than Steve would have supposed she would be. Laughing silently to himself, he caught her happy crow of, " _Mazel tov_."

Keeping the camera focused on his son, he smiled. "Thanks, Wanda."

The Vision's voice cut in, and though he couldn't see it, the android's eyes squinting slightly. "It looks like the human equivalent of a burrito."

At that, Steve turned the phone back to face himself, a deadpan expression overtaking his features. Frowning, Scott reached around behind Sam, socking the Vision in the shoulder. Granted, it didn't do much to actually hurt him (in fact, given the way the other fellow started to shake out his hand afterward, it hurt Lang more), but the point was made and Viz tipped his head bashfully.

"But he's a cute, sleepy burrito," Scott amended for the android, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding sagely, one father to another. Natasha's bright gaze lit up then, and she leaned forward in her seat.

"What's his name?" she asked, pressing her case now that the kid was finally born. Steve and Holly had refused to elude to possible names during the pregnancy, not once letting it slip past their lips in her presence. It had bothered her, and her own digging had gotten her nowhere. She had to give them credit for their tenacity, in that regard. Jabbing a finger at the screen on her end, she asserted, "No sense keeping it secret now."

Steve canted his head at her point, and he cleared his throat, gaze flickering to the name card tucked in on a clear tray on the side.

"Grant Joseph Rogers," he announced, pride and relief evident in his voice. He could finally say it, finally call his boy by his name to others. Holly had insisted on using Grant, rather liking his middle name enough to do so, but the middle name was Steve's choice. It had been up in the air for a long while, but eventually, he found that he could think of nothing but his father's name. The grandfather the little guy would never meet, but would help carry the legacy of the family he'd started.

Once told, Nat turned to Wanda, the two of them discussing whether or not any of the team would be able to get down to the city before Holly and Grant were discharged. Scott and Sam posited that flying visits could be performed, so long as both mother and baby were up for it, and no missions called them away. The Vision nodded along with them, but Steve's eyes were drawn to his oldest friend, sitting by quietly. Bucky had sat back in his chair, arms crossed and his expression contemplative. No doubt he was processing it all, considering the changes in life that had come to each one of them. Steve himself had been doing that for the last few hours, and would most likely keep considering it as the day went on. Still, that wasn't to say the changes were unwelcome.

Spying the concern that was flashing over the commander's face, the new captain straightened in his seat, and he allowed a smile to come through. Perhaps Barnes had realized that, too.

"Nice work, punk," Bucky murmured, an eyebrow barely arching.

"Thanks," Steve returned. Smirking, he tacked on belatedly, "Jerk."

When the call ended a few minutes later, he dropped the phone and ear buds onto the cot that had been provided for him in the room. Sitting down, he blew out a low breath, his hands scrubbing over his face to dispel the tiredness that had cropped up. Deciding that a rest was in order, he took out the candy in his pocket; tossing it, it landed on the far rolling tray with a soft thump. Grabbing the edges of the cot, he rolled it closer to Holly's bed. She hadn't moved much in her sleep, save that her arm was now dangling off the side. Tenderly, he gripped it, leaning over and pecking her fingers in mute thanks and love before setting it back on the bed. The corner of her mouth twitched, but otherwise she remained asleep. Rolling onto his back, he crooked his arms under his head, the slight incline allowing him to glimpse the bassinet and his sleeping son in the last moments he was awake.

There was no better way to spend a Sunday with his wife and his boy, in his opinion.

* * *

 **A/N:**...Grant Joseph Rogers, born July 24th, 2016.

I know, Grant's not terribly original, but when I first plotted out the idea of Steve and Holly having a baby, there was no question. It has been Grant, from Day One, and I couldn't shake it; that boy has no other first name in my mind. And then Joseph, for Steve's dad. Some might have a bone to pick with me not using James, but hey, that would really be cliché, huh? ;)

I tried to keep the childbirth process as clean and non-graphic as I possibly could, due to the rating of this story. Trust me, it could've gotten a lot grosser (and all the mothers out there are going, "Hell yeah, it can, you wimpy writer!"). The miracle of life...has a lot of fluids and such involved—and that's put mildly. I'm trying to keep to the T rating as much as I can. Also, I am not a mother myself, so any information I have regarding childbirth has been gleaned from numerous websites, and a couple of accounts from coworkers and a nurse. It may not be 100% accurate, but I have tried my best.

Liberties were also taken with the publishing parties thing. Launch parties do happen on occasion, but not as much as they used to.

As you have probably surmised, the end of _By First Light_ is right around the corner, most likely the next chapter. And I will reiterate that there is a fourth installment coming. I will need a little time to work on both, so the next chapter might be late next week. Thank-yous and such will happen then, but still, I will say that I appreciate you all for sticking around.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Audi, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	33. Chapter 33

By early Monday afternoon, Holly and Grant Rogers were discharged from the hospital, both declared fit and healthy enough to go home. A crash course on childcare was given to both mother and father, Steve actually taking notes yet again to embed the information into his mind. It would be impossible for the couple to become experts in less than two days, but they were not about to send them out with a basis of knowledge built on what they'd already learned. Calls to both Helen Cho and Carol Watson were made, an appointment for examination scheduled for Holly by that Wednesday made with the latter and the former implying that she would be there as well. However, in New York City, their business was otherwise finished once the birth certificate was signed off.

With both mother and child deemed healthy enough to leave, Steve scrambled to get things assembled and ready for the journey home before the last paper was signed. Though they had the hospital bag, he did not think there was enough for their son, despite the fact that the drive back to their house would only take approximately three and a half hours. As well as that, they would have no assistance until later; Holly's parents had flown into Albany, and he had to send special permissions via JJ to allow them directions and access to their property so that they could meet them there. First, he returned the Audi they had borrowed to Tony, sheepish apologies waved off in favor of confirming that the car was, at least, as clean then as when it was taken before. Assuring him of that, the blond man went forth with his tasks, Stark tagging along out of curiosity (and possible blackmail opportunities, he'd confessed, shrugging off the sharp look that was thrown at him). The hasty purchase of a baby seat for their Buick was followed by the acquirement of a cheap, temporary diaper bag filled with the essentials. Some new receiving blankets, decorated with ducks and elephants, had joined the mix. Before he could stop himself, a small, stuffed bear was swiped through as well. Arriving back at the hospital with all this, he gladly endured Tony's rolling eyes, as the end result was the beam on his wife's face. She was waiting for them at a back entrance, baby in her arms and all attention from prying eyes and the paparazzi being diverted by decoys near the front (agents sent by Nick Fury aiding them in the endeavor). Their bags from the Tower were collected and in the trunk already, and after some finagling with Grant and the car seat—helped yet again by a nurse who had accompanied them to the lot—they were all strapped in and ready for the road. The drive was peaceful, only interrupted by a call from Holly's father, telling them that they'd arrived at the house and would have it opened for them by the time they got back.

As soon as they pulled into their garage a few hours later, the back door flew open, and suddenly Steve and Holly were smothered with the embraces of Lisa. Paul's greeting was far more subdued, but the unmistakable pride and joy in his face was easily spotted. He even favored Steve with a hug, glad to see the man who had given his daughter happiness and a family of her own (only after first giving one to Holly, of course). Once Grant was retrieved from his car seat, though, a whole new wave of adoration burst forth. The tiniest Rogers was almost drowned in the affection his grandmother was giving him, but he managed it quite well. After all, her sure, steady grip on him as they moved into the house was as good a place as any to snuggle up and fall asleep again. Between her, his mother, and Grandpa and Daddy, there would be no lack of attention given over the first days of his life.

Those first two days at the house were spent adapting to the rapid changes of the previous weekend, with Lisa helping her daughter find a rhythm in caring for a newborn amidst the other duties of her life. Steve also followed her lead, determined as ever to be his wife's steadfast partner. Little by little, both man and woman were improving, providing for their baby boy and caring for him as they were being shown, the grandmother and grandfather supporting them as they went—even at three in the morning, when Grant awoke screaming his distress to the world and they had no idea what to do.

The appointment on Wednesday went smoothly, for the most part. Thus far, both doctors had determined that Grant's health remained steady, and at a few days old, there was not much else they could expect. His habits were still developing, some of them raising speculation, but they would have a clearer idea around the six month mark. Watson had given Holly another exam, and imparted some instructions of post-partum self-care that she would have to adhere to for a minimum of six weeks. A pediatrician was called in, a Doctor Boyden, who would be on hand for Grant's care in the coming months. The middle-aged fellow with the dark hair and darker eyes seemed confident in the baby's current progress, his care and calmness soothing both child and parents. With everything appearing to be well, Steve and Holly were able to leave Saratoga Springs with some relief, their boy safely bundled up in the back as they laced their fingers together over the middle console. It was not long before they were home again, Steve kissing his wife's cheek before joining up with his father-in-law on the other side of the garage. Holly made her way inside, putting their son down in his crib to sleep yet again.

The quiet of the house settled, long minutes passing in which the brunette woman stared down at her little boy, a finger trailing over the grain of the rail as she watched him sleep. A distant voice hummed, the retreat of feet down stairs bringing her back into the present. Turning on the monitor, she clipped the receiver to the belt loop on her pants before wandering down to find the source. Tracing it to the basement, she went down to the bottom of the steps, catching sight of Lisa as she adjourned to the laundry room.

She stood for a moment, watching as her mother unflinchingly sorted whites from colors, not hesitating over the garments in the least. One load was dropped in the washer, the other piled atop the dryer to follow later, the task a simple one, in her experience. The younger woman felt a swell rocket through her heart, and she eventually cleared her throat, alerting the older woman to her presence. Silver-blonde hair whipped around as Lisa turned, with her greeting her daughter with a warm smile as she scooped up the empty basket at her feet. Before she could say a word, or ask how the appointment with the doctors went, her daughter opened her mouth.

"Thanks for coming here and helping," Holly said, unable to contain herself any longer on the subject. Though she'd only been out of the hospital for a short time, her mother had been taking the lead in setting the house to rights and assisting them both with Grant. Her dad would pitch in his two cents on occasion, but mostly he contented himself with doing the outdoor chores (which both she and Steve gotten behind on) and cuddling with the little guy when he was done. The younger woman had prided herself on being self-sufficient, but the newest addition to the family—while expected—required her to obtain aid. It had been planned from the outset that her parents would fly in and help, but she didn't think that she would need so much help, or that Steve would need it, too. Tugging on the end of her loose braid, she continued, "I know it's not easy for you guys to leave home. Especially with it being right in the middle of the busy season for Dad and—"

The laundry basket landed on the ground with a light thump, and she suddenly was pulled into her mother's arms. The fierce hug cut off her gratitude, and she felt the lump in her throat tighten as the older woman held on.

"You're my daughter," Lisa stated simply after a few moments, squeezing her gently. Drawing back, Holly had to swallow hard as she glimpsed the watery glitter in her mother's eyes. She known, deep down, that she and her husband could rely on her family for support, to come when they needed them, but sometimes, it was lost in the drone and buzz of their everyday lives. It could be buried due to their daily strife, but it would not vanish or be lost to them for good. Hugging her hard once more, Lisa released her after a few moments, palms on the younger woman's shoulders and her bearing solid. "You couldn't make me stay away if you tried."

She winked then, before scooping up the abandoned laundry basket and turning towards the stairs.

"Particularly when there's a grand-baby here for me to spoil."

Holly could only cough and chuckle, following her mother back up the stairs to help with the next chore.

The first visitors to the house arrived that afternoon, a couple of grocery bags in hand and subdued grins on their faces. As they were both in between missions, Bucky and Natasha took advantage of the time off, insisting on checking up on them and seeing how the little guy was faring. The rest of the team would, no doubt, be cycling through over the next few weeks (something that Holly found herself both grinning and grimacing at, at turns; playing hostess with a days-old baby would not be particularly ideal, but they'd get through it) when missions permitted them. They brought with them take-out containers from a diner in one the nearby towns, a growing favorite among the base workers. Steve almost fell upon the offerings, and Holly was so grateful that none of them had to cook. The six adults congregated in the living room, their repast enjoyed as both ex-assassins caught up with Lisa and Paul, listening to stories as they were traded back and forth (enduring Lisa's nudge at her husband's side when they had declared themselves officially involved; evidently, everybody could pick up what was going on around them in those early months).

Bringing forth Grant after they'd finished eating, Holly turned between the pair, the question of who would like to see him first dying on her tongue as soon as Natasha lifted her hands. Her bemused grin turned more genuine as the redhead cradled the little guy, Russian endearments tumbling over her lips as she held him. Catching the ring of eyes staring at her display, she rolled her eyes and snickered.

"Sweet," she intoned in English. Glancing between the father and mother of the baby she was holding, she continued, "Just remember that when he starts screaming for no apparent reason in the middle of the night."

Steve scoffed and rolled his eyes, but the glint of amusement in his gaze was obvious. "Appreciate the input, Romanoff. Very helpful."

As he and Bucky made their way to the upstairs office, most likely to discuss the business that would need to be attended to with Steve being on paternity leave for two weeks, Holly and Natasha were left to their own devices. The brunette had no doubt that the ex-agent might have wanted to go along with them, but when she spotted the pleased glimmer in her gaze as she chucked the baby lightly under the chin, she decided not to press the issue. Lisa, content with the calm that had taken place, declared that she and Paul would go out to the garage and see if the Buick needed to be taken care of (her dad insisted on giving it a once-over while they were there, changing the oil and such for the vehicles as needed), and soon enough the pair of women were left in silence. Save for the snuffling little breaths that Grant was giving. Smoothing a finger over the baby's brow, Natasha glanced up after a few moments, looking Holly directly in the eye.

"Quite a difference, two years makes," she said plainly, nodding to her and to their surroundings. Following her train of thought, the younger woman allowed herself a snort.

"Got that right," she agreed, leaning back into the couch cushions. "We've come a long way from you semi-threatening me. All of you semi-threatening me."

Natasha blinked then, her ocean-colored eyes holding an edge of chagrin even as she smiled.

"Wasn't meant that way. Not too much," she amended. It was true; all that time ago, back when the two women had had their encounter at the batting cages and bumming around the gas station, it wasn't supposed to be a threat to the brunette. Certainly a warning for the future, but it was a friendly one. Lifting a shoulder, she murmured, "Think of it as vetting you out, and you meeting the challenge."

Holly took that into consideration, along with the memories of the times they'd met afterward, and her mouth quirked.

"Allies," she mumbled, recalling the term that the redhead had given their association. Squinting at her, she wondered if that was the truth. After all, though she knew for a fact that they weren't terribly close, she had come to count on Natasha for a few things, had shared in too much for it to be simply that. Taking in a deep breath, she asked her, "Think I might be able to call you friend one day? It would be better for a mother and aunt to be on good terms."

Natasha's smirk curved more, became a true smile.

"I certainly think we can work something out," she replied, dipping her chin before focusing on the little one now stretched in her lap. "How about it, _solnyshko_? Think we can act like a big, happy family, and tolerate each other? If you agree, keep laying there."

The baby squirmed a little, his tiny limbs jerking, but he otherwise remained in place, resting in Natasha's lap. The two women shared a glance and grin at that.

"Smart choice, Granty," Holly giggled, rewarding her son with a peck on the cheek. A few more minutes passed before the two men upstairs returned, the pair of them having reached an understanding for operations during Steve's absence. Catching Bucky staring at her (later on, he would admit that the sight of his girl with a baby was a little fascinating), the female Avenger made up her mind on something.

"Here, you should have a turn," Nat offered, taking Grant up and half-turning towards her partner. At once, Bucky's hands rose, palms out to stop her.

"I don't know..." he trailed off, diffidence in his face as he looked between them all. It had been a long time since he'd held such a young child, and he didn't know if it was something he should do. Spying Steve's furrowed brow, the remark that was on the tip of his tongue, it was another voice that drew him back, pressing down on his doubt.

"You won't hurt him," Holly murmured softly, her gaze unwavering as she met his. Trust was there, trust that he would not actively injure her son, and it shook him to his core. Swallowing once more, Bucky nodded, taking his claimed spot in the arm chair before allowing his arms to fall open. Smoothly, Natasha rose, about to instruct him on how to hold the baby, but was cut off when he leaned forward, supporting the head firmly while cradling the little guy's body. It seemed almost natural for him, and Holly blinked.

"Done this before?"

"With my sister," he said in a low tone, the blue of his eyes seeming to fog over then. His sister, the youngest of the family...a distant memory of light eyes just like his, hair a shade or two darker than his own, and a brighter smile all flashed in his mind. The flash then centered on the image of her being much smaller, wrapped tightly in a yellow blanket, laying in his lap as an older feminine voice admonished him to be careful.

"Rebecca," Steve supplied, looking as though he, too, were lost in memories. She'd been very much like a sister him as well, had recalled her chasing after them as well as Bucky's other siblings in their childhood. Very vivacious, very boisterous, and as the only girl, she was quite spoiled by her mother. Still was a sweetheart, though, in spite of all that, and Bucky had doted on her (when he wasn't busy pulling his butt out of the fire, of course). It saddened him to think of her being gone, too. Of the Barnes children, with the exception of Buck, she had endured the longest, having passed away only six years before he'd been thawed from the ice. He didn't know if his friend ever looked into what had happened to his family, but he knew that Rebecca had great-grandchildren out there. Perhaps one day, he could meet them.

"When my mom came home after having her, she, she let me hold her," his friend was explaining slowly, his fingers twitching at the sleeve of Grant's onesie to make it lie right. Peering down at the baby, he quietly muttered, "She seemed so small."

The baby in his grip opened his mouth in an O as he yawned, and Bucky let the corner of his mouth curl. One of his metal digits came up, was placed at the crook of Grant's fist, and the little one immediately latched around it, unflinching as his tiny grasp tightened around it. Unbeknownst to him, Barnes had started to rock a little in his seat, and Steve grinned.

"You're doing pretty well, all things considered," he confessed, just as his son screwed up his face and let out a long wail of discontent. Alarm raced across Bucky's face, and he unconsciously turned to his friend, silently begging for his help. Sighing, the blond man stooped and took his boy up, his wife rising to inspect the child as well. "Well, you were, anyway."

The couple conferred over the baby's state, ultimately determining that he was hungry. Relinquishing Grant into his mother's care, Steve shot a glance to his friend, flapping a hand in the air to downplay the disturbance.

"You've got time to brush up on your skills," he said, confident that it would be the case. Bucky raked a hand through his hair (cut again so that it would fit better in the cowl of his uniform) and shrugged.

"I highly doubt I'll be playing baby-sitter anytime soon," he said, smirking ruefully as the crying continued. His gaze tracked Holly as she brought Grant upstairs for his feeding, and he blinked before turning his gaze back to his friend. "But I'll definitely be keeping tabs on the kid. He carries your punk blood; he's bound to get into trouble at some point. He'll need all the back-up he can get."

A light grin punctuated his point, and Steve could do no more than roll his eyes. And from her silent perch on the sofa, Natasha could only give them a bittersweet glance.

"Thank you, Uncle Bucky," the blond man grumbled, a glimmer of humor dancing across his irises despite that. The two friends shook their heads simultaneously, before the crack of the back door opening and shutting, plus Lisa's voice commanding them at Paul's behest to give him a hand outside, drew them out of their private reveries. As they passed, Natasha reached out and crooked her fingers around her lover's arm. Looking down at the beauty on the couch, the two shared similar sad grins before they separated, with Bucky bending and pecking her temple before doing as he was bid.

 **xXxXxXx**

Paul Martin was not sure how he'd heard it, through two floors and several doors (not to mention insulation and the like in the spaces between), but he'd heard the distant cry of a child.

Blinking in the darkness of the downstairs room he and Lisa were staying in, he had a vague sense of panic. One of his kids was crying, he had to get up, had to help his wife...until he remembered where he was, what time it was. His children were adults, the youngest was twenty-eight, and had one of her own...the newborn calling out wasn't one of his. Shaking his head, he peered in the dark at Lisa, who in turn was rolling on her back. Her tired voice cut through the dark, the insistence that it was his turn making warmth and a frisson of sadness lace through him. Instead of rousing her to set her straight, he merely muttered that he would go and take care of it, her thanks muffled into her pillow as she rolled over to face the wall. How easy it was to fall into old habits, he mused, even after not indulging in them for well over twenty years.

Swinging his legs over the side, he ambled over the ugly rug (how did Holly still have that thing? Last he saw of it, it was rolled up in a closet somewhere) and out of the room. The cold of the tiles distracted him from the soreness of his joints and the pops of them as he walked, loosened up by the time he reached the first flight of stairs. Silently, he lumbered up to the ground floor, the lone light over the kitchen stove on still at that hour. The cries upstairs were growing louder as he went to the right, and the fast tread of others' steps echoed down the stairs. Hissed whispers were passed under the wails, and he smirked to himself as he started to go up the staircase. Holding back a yawn, he listened intently as he got closer and closer to the nursery. A hushed croon came from a feminine voice, his daughter muttering something to her husband as he paused on the top landing.

"I know, I just..." Steve's voice trailed off, and Paul could vaguely hear the muted thump of his feet crossing back and forth over the floor. "Hold on."

"Why are you—?" Holly's confused inquiry was cut off when he ambled around the corner, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. His daughter was in the chair in the far corner, the apron-like nursing cover looped around her neck. Steven was in front of her, his hands still adjusting the periwinkle blue cloth to sit right. The wails of his grandson were quieted, as he was now occupied and hidden beneath the cover. In the low lamplight, the older man could also make out the low hum and outline of the pump engaged on the other side, preparing a future bottle for the baby at the same time.

"That's why, doll," Steve muttered, hands dropping to his sides and a light smattering of pink over his cheekbones. Evidently, he hadn't been as silent in his ascent as he thought himself to be; his arrival had clearly been heard.

"Dad," Holly gasped, sitting up straighter in the rocking chair, the nursing cover slung about her falling more into place. Red flooded into her face, no doubt a little embarrassed. To his credit, Steve tried to shield her, angling his body a little more so that he would not get an eyeful of anything—not that it would happen anyway, what with the cloth and all.

"Hey, Paul," his son-in-law said, raking a hand through his hair. "Sorry, uh..."

Raising a palm, the Martin patriarch cut off his apology.

"Been there, done that. Three times," he reminded them both, earning sheepish grins for his efforts. Training his dark gaze on his daughter, he wondered, "You all set, there?"

"I think so. Yeah," the young woman affirmed, checking beneath the cover for a few seconds and noting that both baby and pump were in place. Nodding, he turned his eyes towards Steven, holding his gaze for a moment before gesturing at him.

"C'mon, son," he beckoned him to go with him. Spying the fellow's reticence, he pointed out, "You can't both feed him at the same time. Not yet, anyway. Unless you went through some new developments yourself."

The flush grew darker, and the blond man shook his head.

"No, sir," he responded, scratching the back of his neck. Turning back to his wife, he began to ask, "Are you—"

A hand came up, her fingers flapping for him to depart. "I got this; you go on. Just remember, next time's your turn."

"Steven, come on," Paul called out softly, and his son-in-law's shoulders relaxed minutely, a low sigh crawling out of his nose.

"All right," he conceded, following the older man out into the hallway. With a final look cast behind to Holly, he closed the door until only a sliver of light could be seen between it and the door jamb. Dipping his chin, Paul led the way down the stairs, a slow yawn curling out of his mouth. Scratching idly at his side through his shirt, he glimpsed his son-in-law plodding behind him, catching him staring up the staircase for a few moments. Clearing his throat, he gestured for the blond man to come with him into the kitchen.

"Since we're up, might as well have a drink," he explained himself, turning on the overhead light and blinking rapidly to dispel the dots across his vision. Leaning an elbow on the counter, he caught the grin Steve had barely suppressed.

"Beer's on the bottom shelf of the fridge," he suggested, hooking a thumb towards it. He wasn't feeling particularly inclined to having hard liquor, but knew they could both stomach something like that. Falling upon his proposition, Paul retrieved two bottles, twisting off the tops with alacrity before handing one over to him. Both men settled against the center island, bottles clinking together in a salute before tasting. The first sip of ale brought to mind hints of citrus and floral elements, the hops dispersing them well.

"Not bad stuff," Paul commented, after the flavors of oak and peach swirled over his tongue. It was no Surly Cynic or Summit EPA, to be sure, but it certainly held its own. He needed to give more Nebraska brews a try, if that was what he could look forward to (Hank had gotten him far too deep into his brewing venture, and there was no turning back). Steven swallowed another mouthful, nodding in agreement.

"Gift from an old teammate. Said I would need it," he remarked, smirking ruefully to himself. It was something of a surprise, when Natasha brought in the airmailed present from Clint from her car that afternoon. The note attached had welcomed him to fatherhood, and the micro-brew was meant to ease his way through the transition. Mostly a joke, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless.

Paul snickered, rotating the bottle between his hands. "Despite the sobriety, huh?"

The blond man could do no more than tip his chin up, taking another swig of beer rather than answer verbally. For a time, the two merely sipped at their drinks, the silence around them not uncomfortable. Soon enough, the commander cleared his throat, his thumb tapping against the glass bottle in his hand.

"We really didn't mean to wake you," Steve apologized once again, canting his head in the direction of the nursery.

"Don't worry about it," the grandfather responded, brushing it off. After all, he had stated before that he had been in the same position, three times in his life. Not only that, he had other grandchildren, all of which had spent extended time with him. The corners of his mouth turned down in a brief frown as he considered something, and he murmured, "Just seems like the poor kid is always hungry. And trust me, every one of mine ate like crazy back in the day, but Grant is takin' the cake."

Another rueful smile curled Steve's lips, and he shrugged.

"That might be my fault. Half of me, half of my metabolism," he explained, a finger tracing invisible patterns on the counter top. It was a tad over-simplified, but it was the most comprehensive he could be on the subject. Particularly as his boy was too young to allow any testing to be done in that regard for confirmation. "He's getting enough for the moment, but the doctors are speculating that he'll have to start on formula sooner than is typical just to keep up. Helen, Doctor Cho, will be keeping an eye on everything, along with the new pediatrician."

Paul's eyebrows rose slightly. "So long as they treat him well in the process, and not like a test subject."

Steve's fingers tightened around his bottle, face turning stony and his eyes like chips of ice.

"He's my son. I won't let that happen to him," he swore, the set of his jaw hard as his heart thumped in his chest. It would be a hard road to tread; even after the birth, he had seen the looks the doctors and nurses (the ones not assigned to Grant and Holly) had given them, had heard the whispered questions about if anything had been saved from the process, and the perturbed glances given when it was revealed that nothing was. It was a risk that they could not take, as efforts to recreate the super-soldier serum had not truly abated, and even something as trivial as a tiny prick of his boy's blood could lead to worse things. Grant would be no one's lab rat. Exhaling sharply, he ground out, "Ever."

"Good, because I'm sure his mother would probably have something to say about it," Paul muttered as he took another swig of beer. He knew his daughter, knew how loyal and defensive she could be of those she loved. The little boy upstairs would have more than one shield from the worst of the world.

Some of the steeliness in Steve's form seemed to relent, and he chuckled, "No joke."

The remainder of their beers were had in silence, with Steve taking both bottles to the sink to rinse out after they'd finished. The brew sat heavily in Paul's gut, and he reckoned that it would still be sitting there when he finally went to sleep again, but his introspection ended when he noticed his son-in-law bracing his hands along the sink's edge, the water long since turned off. He looked straight out the window for a minute or two, turning back to face the room with a sigh. The older man said nothing, just waited as Steve's jaw quirked slightly. Soon enough, his patience was rewarded.

"You know, I'm still in awe about...about the whole thing, really. For a long time, I didn't think that I could ever have this," he confessed to his father-in-law. His gaze ran over the room to fix on a point above the arch leading to the rest of the house, his voice softening as he went on. "All of this. And now, with Grant here..."

Paul nodded sagely, his own gaze growing distant and hazy in memory. "It scares you, just as much as it makes you happy."

The abashed smile returned, though it faded rather quickly as Steve exhaled sharply. "I'm guessing this isn't something exclusive to just me."

His father-in-law smirked at him then. "Sorry to say, you have something in common with a good number of us mere mortal men. Probably will be even worse for you, given...everything."

"Yeah," he grunted, acknowledging the harsh truth under that statement. Tapping his thumb against the counter's edge, he looked directly at his father-in-law, his eyes searching his face for answers. Loosening his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he inquired, "How do you...how did you figure it out?"

Leaning a hip against the counter, Paul combed through his hair, the memories of fatherhood suddenly fresh and clear as when they first happened. Teaching Hank how to ride his bike (and then later showing him how to fix the chain when it broke), assisting Heather with a diorama for school...reading Holly fairy tales at bedtime, despite working sixteen hour days and being exhausted...it all came back to him. What also came back to him was his initial mindset during those times, and he could not help but be honest.

"Son, I couldn't begin to tell you. I did the best I could, and I like to think that it was better than a lot of other alternatives." Shrugging his shoulders, he crossed over to Steve and clapped a hand on his arm. It did not banish the twinge of deflation decorating his features, but it helped soften it. Drawing himself to his full height, he declared, "So long as you love him, you'll find out what's best."

A slow, careful grin bloomed on the blond's face, eyes crinkling the corners as he digested all that had been said.

"Thanks, Paul."

The grandfather dropped his hand from his arm, flapping it in the air. "Eh, thank me by trying to sneak in one of my names for the next one."

The flush came back into Steven's face, only that time it went straight to red. "Oh, uh...that, that might not happen for a while. But, um, we, we'll discuss it. Someday."

Chuckling under his breath at the flustered look of the other man, he rolled his shoulders back and shook his head.

"Calm down, Steven. Just teasing. All I'm saying is, Paul would be a good middle name, at least. Or reuse James. Especially as that would have a double use."

Eyes widening, Steve snorted. "Noted."

The muted tread of feet along the hallway floor upstairs alerted them to the young mother of the house's movements. In a few moments, she was down the stairs, her baby swaddled in his blanket and resting in the crook of one arm. A bottle with milk was in her other hand, and a weary grin was on her lips as she nodded to both of them.

"Is he...?" Steve started, crossing over to her at once, concern in his tone. The slight shake of her head made a bloom of relief flutter through him, and he let out a low breath.

"All settled and ready to sleep again," she told him and her father. Stepping around her husband to get to the fridge, she stored the bottle that she had pumped on one of the shelves, ready to be withdrawn at a later time. Turning back to them, she hefted Grant a little higher, the swaddled bundle of child brought towards the two men. "Quick, say good-night."

Complying, the grandfather of the young one went to him, his much larger hand carefully smoothing down the little guy's skewed hair.

"One for me, one for your grandma," Paul stated, two pecks dropped on the crown of Grant's head before he moved towards the basement door. Waggling his fingers at the young couple, he muttered, "Good night, everyone."

"Night, Paul," Steve bid him, Holly's echo following shortly afterward. The basement door latched with a low click, and the patter of his feet melted away after a few seconds. Turning his attention back onto his son, barely fighting off sleep in his mother's arms, he went to them. With one hand cupping under the bundle of his boy, he bent and kissed his cheek. "Night-night, buddy."

As one, the couple walked out of the kitchen, lights turned on and off as they moved back upstairs. Once back at the nursery, Steve stopped just outside the door, watching fondly as his wife took their son to his crib, rocking him a little as she tread over the carpet.

"Sweet dreams, Baby Boy," Holly whispered, a last kiss given before she lowered him to the mattress. With him secure in the crib, she stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her, blowing out a breath as she looked up at her husband. "Now, let's go get three hours of sleep so we can do this all over again."

A scoff shot out of his mouth as he followed her back to their bedroom, his hand splayed in the small of her back. Grant actually had no major troubles with sleeping thus far; once he was down, he would stay down for a long time. Acknowledging the jest, he spiked an eyebrow.

"I thought next time was going to be solely my turn."

"Empathetic 'we,'" she explained, pausing in the doorway of their room and facing him. A muted giggle coursed out of her throat as she rose up on her toes a little. Meeting her partway, Steve accepted her kiss, grinning when she pulled away and licked her lips. "Mm, you taste like hops."

"Blame your old man," he excused himself, ushering her into the room fully before shutting the door. "He insisted."

"Sure, sure. Dragged you kicking and screaming into that one," she sassed, climbing in on her side of the bed.

"I may be scarred for life," he riposted, turning off the overhead light and crossing over to his side.

"Well, dads do that," his wife pointed out, waiting for him to turn up the sound on the monitor and crawl under the covers. Once he was situated, she shuffled over to him, letting her head rest upon his chest. "At least he didn't walk through the living room in just a towel while your friends were over."

Smiling up at the ceiling, he pulled up the covers around them. "Remind me to ask for that story in the morning."

"Ha," was the witty retort. After a few moments of her lightly tracing over his shirt, she muttered tiredly, "As a favor to me, don't do that to Grant, okay? I mean, he'll probably already be in therapy by the time he's five, but there's no need to pile on."

Snorting at the idea, while still admitting that it would most likely become truth in a short amount of time, Steve curled his arm tighter around her. His free hand reached over, switching off the lamp and shrouding them in darkness.

"I'll do my best, _a chroí_ ," he murmured then, eyelids falling shut as she nestled against him. Lost in dreams, it seemed that only minutes had passed before another tiny crow echoed in the monitor. Grant's cries began to increase after a few seconds, and so he forced himself to get up. Carefully, he shifted his wife off of him, pulling his pillow down to rest under her head. Breathy mumbles dropped from her lips, though her eyes remained firmly shut. Moving as swiftly and as quietly as he could, he made his way back down the hall, scrubbing his hands over his face as he went. Going into the nursery, he could see the first slivers of dawn starting to lighten the sky behind the closed curtains. Still, he turned on the lamp on the dresser, his sleep-rough voice whispering to the newborn in an attempt to sooth as he went to pick him up. The answer as to what had distressed the young one was fairly obvious as he approached, and he swiftly took the baby to the changing table. His hands still trembled a little still, even though he'd had quite a bit of practice in the last few days. Mentally remonstrating himself to be as gentle as he possibly could, it took him two tries before powder and a clean diaper were applied. Grant's cries became more like whimpers as the zipper of his pajamas was drawn back up, his little fists curled around the hand wrappers to prevent him from scratching his face. Steve's voice was a continuous hum, coaxing and cajoling him through the whole process, though his insides still quaked. Wishing to help his son become calm again, he sat them both down in the rocker, the gliders sliding easily with his movement. Resting back into the cushions, he looked down at the tiny infant, so small in his arms, and the little one stared right back. Grant's brow seemed to furrow, as though he were studying his father just as much, the slate-gray of birth in his irises making his gaze unfathomable. Soon enough, it dropped; he was too young to hold it for very long at all. Steve's broad finger brushed over the tiny whale on the chest of the pajamas, the warmth and solidity of the child he was holding anchoring him. Paul's words from earlier were circulating through his mind, reverberating a little louder with every pass.

It couldn't stay in there, couldn't be withheld any longer. Inhaling deeply, he looked down and opened his mouth.

"Hey, son. I know it's a little early in the game to have a heart-to-heart, but, well, for once I'd rather not trust to my terrible timing." The self-deprecating chuckle rumbled in his chest, and Grant merely gave a snuffling breath, little legs shaking. Cuddling him closer, he attempted to express himself better, for his own peace of mind if for nothing else. "Life is...life is more than you can imagine right now, and more than even I can, at times. But I can promise you that I do and will love you. I can't say that things will always be good, or even that I'll always be around. But how I feel about you? That won't ever go away or change, no matter what happens." The rush of feeling he had for the tiny creature, for the little boy that was part of him and part of Holly still took him by surprise, but he would not trade it away for anything. Not that he finally had it. "You have my word. And I, I hope that's enough, at least to start with. We've got a long road ahead, and I certainly want to see where it goes. You with me, buddy?"

Grant, whose eyes had closed by that point, merely sneezed, and Steve felt the corners of his mouth curve.

"Yeah," he sighed, bending and pressing a kiss into the babe's hair. That was good enough for him. Several minutes were lost in rocking and breathing, the churn in his mind finally settling. Soft, fast breaths puffed out of Grant's nose, alerting him to the fact that the infant had fallen asleep again. Slowly, Steve got out of the rocker, taking his boy back to the crib and his swaddling blanket. Wrapping him up went a little smoother than changing the diaper had. More beams of sunlight streaked outside the curtains, the pale color of them picking it up even as he turned the lamp off. Treading out the door and closing it silently, he tiptoed down the hall, intent on getting at least another hour or two of sleep.

However, when he stepped back into the master bedroom, he paused on the threshold, looking on as Holly leaned forward from her perch at the foot of the bed.

"You should be asleep," Steve reprimanded her, the sparkle in his eyes giving it away as the joke it was. Well, partial joke; as much as their son appeared to sleep fairly soundly, there was no guarantee that it would remain that way, and they both needed all the rest they could catch in between those times. She tilted her head to the side, meeting his words with a sly smile of her own.

"You're a little hard to ignore, Steven Rogers," she stated simply, the affection in her gaze lining her irises. Coming into the room, he shut the door behind him, striding over to her.

"Just a little?" he asked facetiously and diffidently, kneeling down and shuffling into the V of her legs. Arms wound around each other, his about her waist and hers around his shoulders.

"Uh-huh," she responded, toying with the short hairs at the back of his head. Tipping her head in the direction of the nightstand, she continued, "Especially when you choose to have a moment with the baby right next to the monitor."

He flicked a glance to the device, the white and gray plastic churning out mere white noise now, and he hummed under his breath.

"Heard all that, huh?" he queried, a little embarrassed. Not for saying what he had said, no; he was embarrassed that his pronouncement had an unwitting witness. Speeches were one thing, composed lines and rousing words given to motivate others could be given without feeling that way; when it was heartfelt, his true sentiments spoken, he couldn't act stoic and stiff.

"I heard enough," she professed, the pads of her fingers trailing up and down his neck. Truthfully, she had fallen right back into sleep when he was first roused to take care of Grant, but the serious, firm tone of her husband's voice had drawn her out. The tender, sweet promises made from his heart had filled her with such depth of feeling that she could barely articulate it. Instead, she leaned forward to plant a peck to his forehead. When she pulled back, her dark eyes latched onto his. "You'll keep your word."

Steve's gaze was unwavering as he looked at her, his palms squeezing her sides. "I swear I will."

"Good," Holly declared, reaching down and taking his hands in hers. For a moment they merely looked at one another, the silence of the early morning filtering around them. Soon enough, the sounds of the day—Lisa rising to help her start breakfast, Paul taking up residence in the living room with the paper, and the two of them fitting themselves in the new flow of their lives—would echo in the house, accompanied by the eventual waking of their boy, and they treasured the peace of one another's company. Considering all the changes that they'd had in the last two months, in the last two years, in that time, she felt herself straighten in her seat, her chin tipping up with surety. Well, at least minimal surety; even if she was a little afraid, she wouldn't let it get the better of her. Not that morning, at least. "We've got this. We'll figure it out together."

Bright eyes traced over her face, and Steve shuffled even closer, wrapping her in his embrace again. Resting his head upon her torso, his turned head allowed him to look at their dresser. The picture frame perched atop it, that had been perched atop it since they'd moved in, stood out against the grain of the furniture. The blue paint and words etched around it had faded a little, the sunlight that caught it during the afternoons aiding the process. The photograph within had brightened, too, but time had not taken away anything from it. Her face pressed against his, both sharing a look of happiness, and (in his own eyes, he could see it now), a glimmer of hope for the future.

"Yes, together," Steve agreed, her confidence feeding his, no matter if it was feigned or not. For better or for worse, they would find a way, for themselves and for their son.

* * *

 **A/N:** And that, my friends, is the end of _By First Light_. Ahead of the typical posting day, as well. Holy cow, this has been a journey. One that I have enjoyed taking. And, at its 330,000+ word count, it is the longest story I have ever written.

Frankly, I would not have gotten this far without all of you guys. Every single one of you, from reviewers to silent readers, have given me encouragement, motivation, and aid at every turn, and there is no possible way I can adequately thank you all for that. I hope that, if this does not suffice, it will at least be a start. :-)

As I have stated before, this is not the end of Holly, Steve, and their family, nor the new Avengers' teams. The first chapter of the fourth installment (holy crap, some of you are saying) is up as well. It is entitled _In Due Course_ , and can be found under the My Stories tab of my page. I will explain more of what my plans are for it in the author's notes there, but I do hope that you will all go check it out.

Last notes pertaining to the story—Natasha calls Grant "solnyshko" which is a Russian endearment meaning "sunshine." And the beer Clint sent Steve is based off the Nebraska Brewing Company's HopAnamoly. I'm personally not a beer person, but I know people who have tried and liked it, along with Surly and Summit's stuff (Minnesota brews, y'all).

In comic canon, Bucky did have a sister named Rebecca, and as an older brother, he had experience dealing with little ones. He's just figuring it out, again.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all in the next story!


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